Hellblazer: Hogwarts
by Camwyn
Summary: Sometimes, life bashes you upside the head with a brick in a sock. Hogwarts is about to get its latest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a man cast adrift from his native world- a man named John Constantine.
1. Woke Up This Morning

****

John Constantine's Notes From The Field

This hasn't been my day, mate.

I didn't mind waking up hung over. Really, I didn't. Been there before more times than I can count. Didn't mind the premonition that sent me halfway across London in search of Tim Hunter, either. Two Tims, actually. Him and the Other. Thought that thing was supposed to be dead.

Wasn't dead. Alive, barking mad, looking to blow up Tim, yes. Dead, no.

Anyway. Doppleganger breaks out the big guns, magic blasts about as subtle as a bag of hammers. Tim fights back, of course, but you try fighting through your own shield sometimes. Didn't work, not w/the Other pouring it on like there's no tomorrow. Doesn't look like Tim's going to last much longer, so I think: John old boy, is it just me or could one half-brick in a sock bring that nutter down? Not like he's watching you right now.

Well, I found my half-brick and I had a sock to spare, even had brass knucks in the raincoat just in case, but the damn thing is that Tim saw me. No poker face at all, that kid. The Other sees it and turns around just as I'm getting ready to crack him one. I'd swung the sock and I SAW it connect, but the bastard got one blast off before he hit the paving. Would've called it a bloody stupid way to die, only that would've required me to, y'know, die.

It hurt. A LOT. Knocked me back so hard I thought for certain I'd break every bone I had in me. Think I bounced off the pavement three or four times- not sure. YOU try remembering something like that. Next I know some wanker in a Ford Anglia's bearing down on me, both hands on the horn. Dunno how I got out of the way but I did- got as far as the kerb before the ol' knees gave out. Figured I'd be all right if I sat still enough.

That's when I realised I should've heard something. The battle, maybe- who knew, maybe the Other'd got up just to spite me. Maybe Tim, come to see what happened. Didn't hear any of that, so I pulled myself together and had a quick look-round.

No battle signs anywhere. Nothing. Should've felt something, I figure- magic's like that even after it's over, it hangs in the air. But no, not a trace of it. Nor anything blown up, neither- hell, it wasn't even the right part of town! At least it didn't look that way. Got up to look for a phone booth, and I'm halfway through dialing Tim's number when I realise nothing's broken. I'm not even bleeding.

And it all starts feeling like I'm chewing on tinfoil. Bloody phone wouldn't let me ring Tim up (bad sign #1). Said the number didn't exist. Tried again, got the same message. Tried looking in the phone book on a hunch... nope. Bill Hunter's not there. Neither's Frank Chandler. And, to top it off, neither's John Constantine.

I'm in London right enough, but it sure as Hell isn't MY London. I don't exist, seems like. Went looking for my flat- it's not there, it's not even the same building. Found myself an alley and tried whistling for answers, but the summons got nothing. Literally. I did it right, even w/most of my kit back with Tim, but nothing answered- not Hell, not Heaven, nothing at all.

Fuck this shite, I'm going for a walk and a smoke.

* * *

Constantine covered his face with one hand. Christ, was there NOWHERE in this joke of a London where a man could smoke in peace? Every bloody time he tried to light up he got looked at like he was some kind of paedo. Did they not smoke here, or something? He hadn't seen so much as a single fag-end in the street... they _sold _the things, he knew that, he'd spotted an advert on the side of a bus, but that was about it. _Right,_ he thought with a shake of the head, _I've been magically transported to another dimension's London, and it's one where the NHS won._

It might have been funny, if it hadn't been such a royal pain in the arse. This alternate London, that is. He didn't like it much, and it looked as if the feeling was mutual. When the cash machine rejected his card, he'd dropped a small spell on it- nothing fancy, just a little persuasion. It ended in a chewed-up card spewed all over the pavement. _And_ a monumental new headache, _and _a curdled feeling all along his nerves saying clear as day that he shouldn't try magic again any time soon.

That worried him. Yeah, he'd taken a full-on blast from Tim's doppelganger, but it shouldn't have affected him like that.. No magic _and _no money, what could be better? Oh, right, the part where he didn't actually exist here... dammit. All he wanted was a drink and a smoke, and the drink could wait.

It took a moment to realise his feet had chosen a course of their own; he was standing at the entrance to King's Cross. Well, he figured, why not? The station was as good a place as any if he wanted not to be noticed. It'd give him time to think. And if this London were anything like his own, they'd be so crowded that no-one would have time to do more than glare in passing should he light up. He made his way in, past the Left Luggage and through the increasingly thick crowd. Train must've just arrived, then; one more bit of camo where he needed it. Annoying camo, but still. The more there were of _them, _the less anyone would bother to notice _him. _Now if they'd just get their bloody elbows out of his ribs! "Gerroff," he muttered to the woman who'd just trod on his toes. She snapped back at him, but he didn't hear. He'd caught sight of something...

The ash tray. The sodding wonderful _ash tray._

It stuck awkwardly out of the side of the divider between platforms nine and ten, looking as if someone had jammed it on as an afterthought. John didn't care. It existed, didn't it? Where there was an ash tray, you were _expected _to smoke, weren't you?

He stepped out of the way of a young woman with bright pink hair, into the shadow of the divider. Right now he didn't care _what _kinds of looks he got as he lit up. He closed his eyes, inhaled, leaned back against the barrier-

And fell through.

"Bloody hell!" Caught completely off his guard, John flung his arms out, grabbing for anything that could break his fall- there! It took him a second to realise he'd latched on to someone's arm. "Didn't see y- oh..."

For the arm in question belonged to a great bearded man nigh onto twice John's own height. Moleskin overcoat aside, he looked like something that might've wandered out of Faerie. Certainly no pure human could be that big without magic being involved. Letting go immediately, John gingerly tried to right himself. "Sorry about that," he said, wincing.

"Nah, 's all right," said the huge fellow, with what was probably supposed to be a disarming grin. "Shouldn't've been standin' there anyway, I was blockin' the entrance- here, are yeh all righ'?"

John wasn't listening. The abbreviated fall hadn't done his head any favours. Skull bones he didn't know he had were throbbing at him angrily. "Teach _me _to bring a brick to a magic fight," he muttered.

The monstrous man tsk'ed, clapping a hand the size of a dinner plate on John's shoulder and setting his knees to swaying. "Well, that was right stupid of yeh! What'd yeh go and do that fer? Nah, never mind- c'mon." Before John could offer more than a token feeble protest, he was being steered towards the divider again. "It's safe if yeh sit over here- g'wan, sit-"

"Thank you," John said faintly, and let himself slump against the brick. After a few moments his vision quit swimming, and the hammering in his skull died away a little. Carefully, he reached up to run a hand over the worst points of pain.

"Y'don't look like yeh broke anythin', if that's what yer after," said the stranger's voice. "Think y' could stand?"

"Not just yet." John took a few deep breaths, staring fixedly at the concrete between his feet. He could feel the enormous stranger looking down at him, and didn't much care. Pain tended to concentrate the attention marvelously. "Give me a minute."

"A'right... say, are yeh sure you're supposed t' be here? Pardon my askin', bu'... "

John shook his head and instantly regretted it. "I'm not," he said when the pain receded. "Supposed to be here, I mean. I'm afraid I'm lost-" He took another long breath. "You're some kind of giant, aren't you? Not medically- I mean by ancestry?"

The big man took half a step back. "Here, how'd yeh-"

With a sigh, John leaned his head against the divider. "I'm not _blind,"_ he said wearily, "just _lost. _I'm a wizard of sorts. My name's John Constantine."

There was a long silence. Then the man nodded. "Rubeus Hagrid."

John's lips curled into a faint smile; he looked up at the other man. "Pleased to meet you, Hagrid," he said. "Now, if you don't mind, my arse is going numb. Got somewhere else we can talk?"

* * *

Definitely in entirely different universe. Bugger.

Big hairy fellow's name is Rubeus Hagrid. Says he's Keeper of Keys and Grounds at a place called Hogwarts. Gave me very strange look when I said 'where's that?', asked if I was _sure _I was a wizard. Thought of demonstrating, but nerves still too curdled even to try. Told him I sodding well knew he was part giant just by looking, didn't I? King's Cross no place to explain things anyway. Hagrid agreed, said 'Leaky Cauldron' would be better choice.

Leaky Cauldron bit of a walk from King's Cross. Turned out to be v. small, grubby pub between WH Smiths & Tooting Records. Hagrid spent last bit of walk trying not to look like he was watching me. Turns out 'muggles' (local term for people who can't learn magic) don't even know it's there. Since I walked up to the door and asked 'are you coming in or not', Hagrid much relieved.

Wizards smoke if the smell here is anything to go by.

Hagrid bought drinks. Said they don't take muggle money here & showed me a few coins. Apparently magic common enough here to have separate bank issuing money for use in related transactions. Spent next half-hour explaining where I came from, how I got here, nature of magic at home, etc. Summonings & rituals don't work at all, not for anyone. At least, as far as Hagrid knows. Magic _here _involves waving wands- actual wands- & shouting in ridiculous Latin. In fact, vocabulary of magic-users overall sounds like it was made up by nine-year-olds. Probably the same kids who came up with this 'butterbeer' stuff-

Speaking of kids. 'Hogwarts' = entire public school full of kids too young to drive or drink being taught magic as if it were safe as maths. Headmaster is one Albus Dumbledore- Hagrid calls him greatest wizard alive, says he can figure out how to get me home. Slight problem: will either have to visit this school, or stay here and send message to Dumbledore via _owl. _As in bird.

Owl. I ask you.

Any road. Still got no money, no magic, no friends, but Hagrid can get me to Hogwarts to talk to this Dumbledore once he's finished his errands in London. Looks like I'm in for a train ride.

* * *

John glanced out the window at the countryside rolling by. It looked green and blurry with the occasional blodge of brown- in other words, exactly the same as any other bit of English countryside he'd ever seen from a train. That was something, at least.

He turned back to Hagrid. "So let me see if I've got this straight," he staid, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You've got enough people here with the capacity for magic that you've got an _entire government _just for them."

Hagrid nodded.

"And you've had a formal system of magic for at _least _a thousand years, since that's how long the school's been in existence."

"Well- there was magic an' wizardin' folk long before Hogwarts-"

"I know that. What I'm trying to get clear on is: in all that time, with all those people doing magic left, right, and center, _no one _has had any kind of contact with the powers of either Heaven or Hell?"

"Not that I know of," said Hagrid, "bu' I didn' do so well in History o' Magic."

"Even so, you wouldn't've forgotten something like that. Once that lot starts interfering in human affairs, there's no getting them out."

Hagrid considered this, then shook his head. "Nope. Don' remember ever hearin' of it. That kind o' talk's fer Muggles, not the likes of us."

John eyed the gamekeeper for a moment. "By 'the likes of us' you mean-"

"Wizardin' folk. Wha'd you think?"

"Well, it's not as if you see the people of Faerie talking about- here, what's so funny?"

For Hagrid had burst into a deep, riotous laugh that all but filled their compartment on its own. One great hand wiped at the tears that started to stream from his eyes. "Faerie. Did yeh really- yeh don't- gallopin' gargoyles!" He gasped for breath, visibly fighting down the laughter. "Why, y' might as well ask if I was part _elf!"_

John quirked an eyebrow. "Where I come from they're more of the same," he said mildly. Under other circumstances he might've been irritated, but he sensed that the giant meant no offense by his laughter.

With a visible effort, Hagrid pulled himself together. "Fairies," he explained, "don' get much bigger'n me fingers." _That's still one bloody big fairy,_ John thought. "Look like people, really, 'cept fer the wings. They're 'armless, mostly- we bring 'em in for Christmas, they glow an' they'll sit pretty fer hours if y'ask nice-"

"Fairy lights," murmured John, thinking of the strings of bulbs that erupted on every house for miles at the dark time of year. Hagrid nodded.

"Yep, that's them. An' elves, well, they're house-servants mostly- yer old, old pureblood families, they have 'em sometimes."

"Pureblood? What, full human?"

"Nah- pure wizard blood. No Muggle kin anywhere." Hagrid's expression grew sour. "Bin causin' a lot o' trouble lately... anyways, elves're mebbe so tall-" He indicated a creature not much higher than John's midriff. "- an' no harm to no one, less'n they're mistreated or their master tells 'em ter do summat nasty."

"Master." John shook his head, thinking of Tim's troubles with Faerie. "Do they fix shoes, steal babies, that kind of thing?"

Hagrid's face grew thoughtful. "Well- babies, I dunno, bu' they'll fix shoes if their master asks 'em."

"Where I come from, things are… rather different." _Titania would explode at the idea, _John silently added. He glanced out the window again. "Sounds to me like you've got it easy, by comparison. No sign of Hell, nor Heaven, nor Faerie..."

"I dunno, John. There's plenty o' problems here, y' just ain't seen 'em yet."

"Oh?" He tore his gaze away from the window. "Such as?"

"Well... " Hagrid fidgeted. "There's a war on..."


	2. It's Probably Me

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

Notes From The Field  
  
Hagrid's war all down to one man, some git calling himself Lord Voldemort. Apparently he's some magic psychopathic racist dictator or something who held power 15 yrs. ago. Reign of terror, people dying left & right, armies of sinister magic creatures, etc. etc., but got his arse served to him on a silver platter by a baby name of Harry Potter. Been trying to stage comeback ever since. Lord V wants to 'purify wizarding race', can't even stand wizards w/muggle ancestors, would be happier if muggles all died screaming. Sounds like every fascist wanker to come down the pike only w/magic. Tried telling Hagrid this. Did not help. Hagrid unwilling even to say Lord V's _name._ Talked about his allies, though. His Nibs has gang of wizards & witches hanging on his every word- "Death Eaters". Pure-bloods and Muggle-haters, the lot of 'em. All chomping at the bit for a magical race war, though they'll stop off for a bit of torture & such along the way if they're not in a hurry. _Then _they kill you.

And that's it, apparently. No raising guardian demons from disjointed corpses, no summoning horrors from the bowels of Hell, no nothing. Kill, maim, start race war, all hail Lord V., who's up for jelly & ice cream.

Thought of the Brujeria. This did not measure up to them. What it sounded like was the Manson Family, & I said so. Had to explain Manson; Hagridseemed to think anyone w/Charlie's kind of grip on his followers had to be a Dark Wizard. Load of tosh, of course- Manson was about as magical as Margaret sodding Thatcher. Took so bloody long to set him straight that I had to light one up. (This did not go well & I do not want to talk about it.) Got it through eventually, though, right before the train arrived.

Hogsmeade, our stop, is largest all-magic town in Britain. Translation: got off steam train accompanied by giant, nearly got run over by idiot on flying broom. Going to be flattened by large Norse woman in chariot pulled by cats if this keeps up. Got up anyway & followed Hagrid into town. Despite very clearly _not _smoking, got the Look again. This time it was the clothes. Whole town appears to have escaped from the Eisteddfod. Was going to ask about this but Hagrid spotted this Dumbledore of his heading into a place called the Three Broomsticks.

I swear on my eyes, I thought he was Father Christmas. Maybe after a few months' slimming at the seaside, but still Father Christmas. Long white beard, crimson robes, spectacles and all. Pointy hat rather spoiled the effect. Didn't see us, so we followed him into the Broomsticks. Hagrid caught him as he was sitting down, said he'd finished his errands, & introduced us. Then he went off saying something about having to 'feed the thestrals' (sounds like Wizard for taking a quick piss if you ask me), and left me to explain.

* * *

The rims of Albus Dumbledore's spectacles glittered in the firelight. "You tell an impressive story, Mr. Constantine."

"Thank you."

"Most of what you have said, of course, lies beyond my power to directly confirm." Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, then went on. "Quite a few men in your position would take it upon themselves to ... shall we say, embroider upon the truth? A few enhancements here, a little elimination of the unnecessary there?"

John gazed levelly back at the Hogwarts headmaster, expression neutral. He'd given Dumbledore a true account of his situation- not the most detailed account, but a true one. If he _had _embroidered upon the truth at all, it was only with more truth- he didn't exactly resemble the local magical community. Had to explain a bit about why a so-called wizard wore everyday clothes and didn't carry a wand, didn't he? A little extra to get his point across, that's all it was. "Believe me," he said wryly, "there's no one knows that better."

"Of course." Dumbledore inclined his head fractionally. "Under ordinary circumstances it would be a trivial matter to sort out how much I could rely upon, how much could be discounted... but these are hardly ordinary circumstances, are they? You, here, claiming to be from another world entirely- you must understand, Mr. Constantine, that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof."

That sounded more than a little suspicious. Hagrid had said most ritual magic didn't work here, but Hagrid had _also _said he'd been chucked out of school before the age of fourteen. "What sort of proof are we talking about here?" John asked warily.

Dumbledore's face crinkled in a smile. "Just a little examination, Mr. Constantine." One hand lifted his wand, gestured with it negligently. _"Legilimens."_

What came was not an attack, but a sort of knock at the edges of John's mind. He'd had his head invaded before more times than he cared to count; these days the barriers stayed up all the time unless he had a bloody good reason to drop them, and this wasn't good enough. "Sorry," he said, "you're going to have to try harder than _that."_

"But of course, Mr. Constantine." Damn it, he was still smiling.

This time it wasn't a knock. It came harder, a jolt like one might get on the Underground, and it was followed immediately by another that felt like a rugby player out for broken bones. John narrowed his eyes, watching Dumbledore as the blow came again. "Still no good, guv-"

The next attempt all but knocked him backwards physically; he knew that one more attempt like that would blow the barriers entirely. _Well, _John thought, _if he wants proof, then it's proof he'll get. _He crossed his fingers under the table.

The memories were in place, lined up neatly. All of them. Absolutely everything John could dredge up in the eyeblink between one moment and the next lay waiting. Dammit, if anyone was going to go rooting around in his head, they'd do it on _his _terms.

He placidly smiled at Dumbledore, who inclined his head.

The strike came.

John offered no resistance at all.

Some minutes later Dumbledore dropped his wand, and John felt a small surge of satisfaction. "Well," he said as the older man wiped his palms dry, "was that proof enough for you?"

"Yes... yes, I rather think it was." Dumbledore's voice didn't sound quite as steady as it had, and the smile was gone. "Did you really- that cult in-"

"Yes."

"You _actually-"_

"Yes."

"And the little girl- Astra, was it?"

John closed his eyes. He hadn't intended Dumbledore to find that one. "That. Will never. Happen. Again."

"I see." A pause. "Did you _really_-"

"As I said before, yes."

"Are you quite serious about not allowing such things to happen again, Mr. Constantine?"

John's eyes flew open. "Excuse me?"he demanded incredulously. "You just went through my entire sodding **head!** That's not enough for you?"

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Constantine." By this time Dumbledore had regained his composure. "I am not maligning your motives, or past performance- far from it. I am offering you a rhetorical question as an opening to an entirely different conversation."

"What d'you mean, _'different'?"_

"I mean one in which you are offered a position that makes use of your- ah- extensive life experience." He adjusted his spectacles again and peered over them at John. "To my knowledge, no one has ever traveled from this world to- ah- any other version of Earth. Neither have we had any visitors from the other direction, before you. What is done once may be done again, of course, but recreating the circumstances... well. That may be more than a little difficult."

"Yeah, you don't exactly have Tim Hunter's doppelganger here, do you," John muttered.

"Not to my knowledge." Dumbledore smiled a little. "For now, I will do what I can to live up to Hagrid's promises and send you home as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I can make no guarantees for the meantime- which leaves you in a very poor position, does it not?"

Oh, John knew this tune right enough. He'd sung it himself more than once. "All right," he said wearily, "what d'you need from me?"

"Very little, compared to some of your previous bargains," Dumbledore said. "Only a year's time. Possibly less, if your travels can somehow be arranged before then."

"A- wait. What?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry finds itself in need of a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher- for, I fear, the fifth time in as many years. I understand you have some experience in teaching young wizards?"

John stared.

"I realise, of course, that you are unfamiliar with our specific forms of magic. Naturally, you will require some time to familiarise yourself first- but given your knowledge of magical theory and principles, that should hardly be a problem for you. Perhaps a month's time to work on some of the particulars first, and then a demonstration?"

Shaking himself like a dog with a coat full of water, John spoke. "You want me to-"

"Teach at Hogwarts, yes."

"For a _year?"_

"That is my price. You need a spell that has never been worked before; I need a teacher for a position that grows increasingly difficult to fill."

"But-"

"Compared to some of the things you have traded away..."

John bit back a curse; the old man was right. "There are people back home who need me," he said, unwilling to give up entirely. "Things loose in my world-"

"That is true," said Dumbledore. "But consider this: if you do _not _accept my price, how do you expect to get back at _all? _Your friends will have to manage without you for a time, Mr. Constantine. I assure you, a way _will _be found to send you home. Until then, why not spend your time productively?"

Dammit.

There was a small _clink_ as Dumbledore slid a pile of coins across the table. They gleamed gold in the firelight. "This should be enough for a wand from Ollivander's, in London," he said. "And an appropriate text or two. I shall have the school withhold the sum from your first salary period, of course. The rest will have to wait until you are officially hired."

"You're assuming I pass the demonstration," John muttered, staring at the coins. "What if I fail? I tried my own magic twice in London-"

"And it failed you, yes. But it is still there, I assure you. You could not have kept me out of your memories if it were not. A month's study and practice will be ample for our demonstration's purposes, I think." He sounded very confident of that; John looked up. The old man was watching him.

"Where do I stay in the meantime?" he asked at last.

Dumbledore smiled.

* * *

Notes From The Field  
  
A _year. _I'm going to be stuck here at least a bloody _year. _Oh, sure, Dumbledore _says _he'll send me back early if he figures out how. Pull the other one, it's got bells on. He's a headmaster, it's a school, if he finds the spell to send me home in January where's he going to find a teacher for the rest of the year? No, if I'm _lucky _I'll go home in June.

Don't want to think of what'll happen back in my England if I'm _not _lucky.

Mind you, we_ are _talking sodding enormous public school here. Hagrid (who has agreed to put me up for a month) says students get lost in the library for weeks at a time. Independent research, anyone?

Which reminds me- Dumbledore said he'd knock me up in the morning so I could catch a ride to London. No wand shop in Hogsmeade & the bookshop's not worth mentioning.

* * *

Hagrid snored. Oh, how he snored.

The gamekeeper's hut was big enough for any _normal _snorer to entertain overnight guests without trouble, but this was Hagrid. _Dead _people could likely hear him snoring. The cushion John had wrapped around his head in a desperate attempt to block out the horrible sound from the other room had not helped in the slightest. In the end he'd huddled in the depths of the enormous chair, counting up to a hundred and down again in a vain effort at reaching proper sleep. How the man's huge black boarhound could sleep through the din, John had no idea.

A particularly grinding roar from the other room shattered what little rest John had managed to achieve. Muttering imprecations under his breath, John staggered out of the chair and peered out the window. Dawn, or a little after- it was too misty outside to tell. Not his idea of a civilized hour to be awake, but there was nothing for it, really. Not with that bloody _noise. _Actually, no; it occurred to John that there _was _something for it. He fumbled in the dark for his raincoat, patting down the pockets and sighing with relief at the familiar old bulges. Someone would've paid in blood if he'd lost his Silk Cuts.

He'd just got outside and found himself a nice quiet spot around one side of the hut to shelter in when the voices floated through the fog. Cupping both hands protectively around the first real smoke he'd had since before King's Cross, he listened warily.

"... no luck yet." It was a woman's voice. "Not for lack of trying, mind you- but with everyone from here to London convinced there's dementors lurking in their back garden, and Fudge trying to make up for a solid year of denials-"

"Then there have been no new leads at all?" And that was Dumbledore.

"Well- Kingsley's gone to Aberdyfi, there's been reports around Cader Idris that _he _thinks sound like the real thing, but I haven't heard back from him yet. I haven't had time to check in with the rest of the Order."

John considered the words, then dismissed them. It was still too early to go doing stupid things like talking, so far as he was concerned.

"That _is _a pity," murmured Dumbledore. "I had hoped... well. No matter. Will you have time to check on Harry?"

"Oh, I think so." The unseen woman laughed brightly. "About time Mad-Eye got some relief anyway. I'll swing by after I get finished in London- there was an unlicensed Apparition-"

"Is the Ministry equating underage wizards with Death Eaters now?"

"No, no, apparently some poor bloke in Muggle clothes dropped out of the air in broad daylight and almost got killed. No one saw what happened to him after that. Someone thought it might've been You-Know-Who's idea of a joke- you know, setting Muggles to killing each other-"

"Ah. Well, happily that is not the case. _Lumos."_ A pearly white glow lit up the fog to John's left. Moments later, Dumbledore stepped into John's little circle of shelter, the wand in his hand the source of the light. "Allow me to present your endangered 'Muggle'."

The pink-haired young woman who followed two steps behind Dumbledore peered at John skeptically. "Um- no offense, Albus, but-"

John's mouth twisted in something that might've once been a smile. "You'll have to excuse me looks," he said dryly. "Caught me at a bit of a bad time. Here, Dumbledore, you haven't got a spare sock on you, have you? Only one of mine's wrapped around a half-brick somewhere I can't place."

Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "Alas, I fear I've left all of mine back at the castle." He indicated the woman next to him. "Allow me to introduce you; John, this is Nymphadora Tonks-" She scowled furiously at the sound of the name, but said nothing. "and this, Tonks, is John Constantine."

'Tonks' blinked a moment, looking from John to Dumbledore and back again as if she expected one or the other to confess to some great joke.

"What've you been telling her about me?" John asked out of the side of his mouth, even as Tonks exclaimed, "This? _This _is your new professor?"

"Potentially. Potentially," Dumbledore soothed. "Mr. Constantine has agreed to give us a year-"

"-only because I haven't got a choice-" John muttered _sotto voce_.

"-in exchange for our best efforts at sending him home."

"Ah? Where's home for you, then?" Tonks stepped nearer, looking John over a little more closely. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the lit cigarette. "You don't look like you're from around here."

"'m not." John tapped off a few bits of ash. "Home's London just now, only I figure it's a London two or three worlds away at least. Got myself blown through to here in a duel of sorts, and now I can't figure how to get back."

Tonks gave a low whistle. "Must've been some duel."

You could say that... say, have I seen you before?"

"I don't think so, I expect I'd-" Dumbledore cleared his throat; Tonks grinned. "Sorry, sorry. Apparently I'm to take the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to London today. I hear you're in need of a new wand?"

"Yeah, among other things..."

"Well, you can tell me all about it on the way." Tonks rubbed her hands together briskly. "Come on. The sooner I get you taken care of, the better. How're you for flying?"

With a sigh, John stood away from the wall. "I don't- wait. Flying? Flying _what?"_

"Brooms, Mr. Constantine," said a visibly amused Dumbledore. "Surely your world's heard of witches and wizards riding broomsticks?"

John stared. "You're joking, right?"

For answer, Tonks held up a - yes. Yes, it _was _a broom, a common-as-dirt, wood-handled, straw-bristled broom. When she let go it hovered silently in the air next to her, like some bizarre kind of dog.

"Bloody hell. You _aren't _joking."

Tonks laughed. "Never had a broomstick ride, eh? All right, I'll steer." She patted the stick fondly.

"Do be careful with him, Tonks. He doesn't needa visit to St. Mungo's."

"I'm not _that _bad!" Tonks protested, a statement which did nothing whatsoever to ease the sudden knot in John's stomach.

Dumbledore shook his head, smiling slightly. "Good luck with your trip, Mr. Constantine." Before John could say anything else, the light of Dumbledore's wand went out, and he vanished into the mist.

"Oh, for- _Lumos, lumos," _muttered Tonks. The same pearly light as before flared from the end of her wand. "Sorry about that- honestly, I might be a little clumsy but I'm an excellent flyer. Ask anyone, they'll tell you."

"Er- thanks all the same, but-"

Tonks arched her eyebrows at John. "Don't tell me you're afraid? You won't last long at this school if you can't handle a little flying, Mr. Constantine."

"It's John, and I'm not afraid of flying, just-" He waved a hand at the hovering broomstick. "Never had to handle one of those things before."

"Well- all right. Look, I really _am _a good flyer. Come on, I'll show you. Only put that thing out first, I don't want you setting the bristles on fire."

Not much liking the image that sprang to mind, John complied. "Now what do I-"

Tonks took the broomstick in both hands and presented it to him. "Hold it at about this height," she said, "one hand here, the other here- yes, like that. Now just throw your leg over it, sit back and- oh, _bugger!"_

For John had thrown his right leg over the broomstick as told, only to find the thing resisting his weight with a surprising amount of force. That wouldn't have been a problem, except that he'd gone and pushed off the ground with his left foot in the process.

It really was an awfully responsive little broom. At least he'd shown enough wit to wrap both arms around it and hang on for dear life as it rocketed off over the hut in the direction of the Forest. .

__

_"Sonorus," _Tonks sighed, wand pointing at her throat. Then she cupped both hands around her mouth. "JOHN! JOHN, LEAN FORWARD!" She paused; was it her imagination, or were there rapid-fire crunching noises in the direction he'd gone? "NO- TRY NOT TO HIT ANY OF THE TREES!"

Well, all right, that put an end to the crunching, but- oh, there, nothing she knew of that lived in the Forest could swear like that. Tonks cocked her head thoughtfully. The stranger did seem to have a talent for cursing, if not flying... "ALL RIGHT!" she bellowed in the direction of the vulgarity. "COME ON, YOU'VE ABOUT GOT IT- NOW THIS WAY!"

A distant cry of _"Sod off!" _could just be heard.

Despite herself, Tonks let out a bark of laughter. "JUST A LITTLE FURTHER! COME ON-"

Behind her the hut door creaked open, golden firelight briefly spilling out into the morning. "Wha's all this then?" asked a still-sleepy Hagrid, rubbing his eyes with both fists.

"Taking the new fellow to London, Hagrid," Tonks said gaily, wincing as she realised the Sonorus Spell was still in effect. "Only he's just getting used to-"

****

WHAM.

"-flying." Tonks pointed her wand into the patch of sky from which the still-swearing, face-down Constantine had just fallen. _"Accio Cleansweep."_

The broom dipped out of the air in a graceful arc, smacking neatly into Tonks' outstretched hand. John didn't bother lifting his head from the turf to stick up two fingers in her direction.

Tonks sighed, setting her broom aside as he pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. "Sorry about that, John, I did try to warn you..."

"Fug." John grimaced, wriggling his jaw for a moment before spitting a few blades of grass. "M' ribs- sodding _teef-"_

"Here, let me check something." Before John could stop her Tonks was in front of him, wand pointed straight at his face. His arm came up in a reflexive block as she spoke: _"Scourgify."_

The realization that a fifteen-foot fall apparently hadn't broken every bone in his forearms shot through his head and vanished. It just couldn't compete with the extremely peculiar sensation of the dirt he'd all but swallowed suddenly leaping out of his mouth and flying away at top speed. For a moment all he could do was blink, open-mouthed with surprise. By the time he'd recovered his wits Tonks was leaning in, examining her handiwork with a dissatisfied eye. "Didn't get everything, but it'll do… They're all fine, John. Your teeth, I mean. Sorry I couldn't fix the coat too, but I've never been much good at that sort of spell."

He looked down. He _distinctly _remembered skidding along the grass for a good ten feet or more when he'd hit, and all he had to show for it was a faint smear of green along one side of his coat's front. "What the _hell _did you do? And why-" He cautiously flexed his fingers; no pain at all. "why isn't anything broken?"

Tonks grinned. "You're a wizard, all right," she said as he prodded at a few more sore places. "Wizarding folk are a lot tougher than Muggles. I've seen Quidditch players take Bludgers to the head that would've killed any Muggle stone dead. A little fall like _that? _That's nothing. Worst you could expect from that would probably be a broken wrist, and any good Healer could patch that up in a couple of minutes anyway."

"Bludger?" John asked, only half listening. Huh. Hands fine, arms fine, legs fine, and- yes- all his teeth seemed to be where they belonged.

"Iron balls about so big." Tonks indicated the size of a football. "They whiz around the pitch trying to take out the Seeker-"

Some sporting thing, then. "All right, I get it, wizards don't break easily. 's good to know." John gave the prone broom a venomous look. "Only it's not going to come up again, because I don't plan to give that bloody thing another chance."

"Oh yes you are."

"Oh no I'm not." The coins Dumbledore had given him were still safely stashed in a buttoned coat pocket. "Hagrid, which way to Hogsmeade?"

"Ah- sorry, John..." The big fellow hesitated, shifting his weight from one bunny-slippered foot to the other. "But if Dumbledore says yeh've got t' go wi' Tonks here, then yeh'd better do it."

John eyed Hagrid sourly. "Some help you are."

"Leave him out of it, John." Tonks held her hand over the broom. "Up... The train takes too long. Anyway, you need someone to show you around Diagon Alley."

He folded his arms across his chest. "I am _not _getting back on that thing."

"Oh, come on. It's perfectly safe as long as you don't start squirming. Look." Tonks hopped aboard the broom and lifted her feet from the ground, circling lazily. "Here, just get on behind me- I _promise _ it won't take off this time. See, I've got it under control," she added as she brought it to a stop in front of him.

John glanced at Hagrid, who made an encouraging little gesture, or at least what he probably thought was an encouraging little gesture. Suppressing a mutter of 'traitor', John cautiously passed one leg over the stick.

"That's right," Tonks said cheerfully. "Okay, now _slowly _pick up the- oh, wait, get your hands around me first." She paused. "A little lower, if you don't mind."

"Sorry."

"That's all right, you've got it now. Okay, pick up the other leg- there, was that so hard?"

"Don't ask me to be happy about this, all right?"

She gave a merry laugh. "Oh, you'll be fine. All right, Hagrid, we're off to London." The broom started circling again, gaining altitude this time; John shut his eyes tightly. "Tell Dumbledore I'll drop John here off before I look in on Harry!"

"All righ'!" John heard Hagrid call from somewhere far below, just before the broom gave a lurch and rocketed forward. Grimacing, John pulled up his legs as close to the broomstick as he could-

"You all right back there?" yelled Tonks, her voice almost lost in the wind.

"No!"

She laughed. The wretched woman _laughed. _"Oh, come on! It's not _that _bad!"

Eyes still closed, John gritted his teeth a moment before yelling back. "We're doing sixty bloody miles an hour over the countryside on a bloody _broomstick _that just tried to _kill _me! Yes! It _is _that bad!"

More laughter- and then, unbelievably-

"You're not going _faster?"_

"What use is a perfectly good racing broom if you don't use its full potential?" she answered as gaily as anyone who is leaning into seventy-five miles an hour of wind can.

"Christ!"

"Besides! The sooner we get there, the sooner you'll be back on the ground! Won't that be nice?"

John muttered a very rude word indeed, which the wind whipped away.

Eventually, the broom started to dip alarmingly downwards. "Don't worry," Tonks called over her shoulder, "we're just coming in for a landing... You all right back there?"

"What d'you think?"

Tonks laughed. "Oh, good. Hang on tight now."

He stifled the urge to ask what she thought he'd been doing up to then, and a few moments later the broom's motion stopped entirely. When he opened his eyes he found that they'd landed in a city park. "Where are we?"

"A little ways from Diagon Alley. Come on, off you go." Tonks waited until he was clear of the broom before reaching into her pocket. "Right, just a tic-" She rapped the broomstick smartly with her wand, suffusing it momentarily with a rush of greens and browns. "Disillusionment Charm," she explained as she thrust the all-but-invisible broomstick into a convenient cluster of brush. "I can't very well walk through the streets with it, so the less likely Muggle kids are to find it the better… all right, this way."

John followed her out of the park and into the street. "You couldn't just land that thing where we're going?"

"Nah. Diagon Alley's too busy a place to put down a broomstick- it'd be like trying to land a what-d'you-call-'em, helicopter, in the middle of the street." She glanced up and down the pavement, quickening her pace. John lengthened his stride to keep up. "You really don't have brooms where you come from?"

"Afraid not."

"How d'you get around, then?"

"Me? Got a friend who drives a cab, he's usually good for a ride. The Tube, if Chas is busy."

"Really?" She sounded amazed. "Weird! You don't even Apparate?"

"What, popping into and out of existence or something?" John snorted. "Can't say I have, no. Wish it were that easy-"

But she'd got the bit in her teeth now. "How about Floo? You've at least got a Floo Network, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The- you don't-" Tonks stopped in her tracks, staring up at him. "Are you _sure-"_

An immense weariness settled over John. "Look," he snapped, "I do not know this Floo of which you speak. Neither do I ride a broom, wave a wand, or- or Apparate. I am not part giant. I do not dress like something out of a panto of King Arthur. I have done many, _many _things in my day, _actual magus things_, most of which probably mean absolutely nothing to you-"

"I didn't-"

"-given that you don't even seem-"

"John-"

"-to have _contact _with the kind of entities I-"

"JOHN!" Tonks glared at him. "We are on the _street!"_

"So?"

"So, this isn't the kind of thing we _talk _about in public!"

"Fuck." He passed one hand over his face wearily. How long since he'd last had a full night's rest?

She was staring at him, he could feel that. Dammit.

"Sorry," he muttered at last. "Wasn't thinking."

"No, I suppose not."

"Listen." He dropped his hand. "I don't mean to be a divvy about it, but you've got to understand- since I woke up yesterday, I've had a major magical blast to the chest, a near death experience in London traffic, a face full of tree branches, a fifteen-foot drop onto solid earth, and about three hours of sleep. I may have broken one of my teeth on Hagrid's idea of dinner, I can't really tell, and the only people here that I've managed to speak to have all questioned every last thing I've said at every fucking turn. So you'll pardon me, but a _little _less aggro would go over really well just now."

She was still staring at him, but there was a different quality to it- some softening of the expression. He couldn't really tell, and he didn't really care.

"Hagrid made you dinner," she said at last.

"Yeah."

"And… you ate it."

"Yeah."

Tonks gave a long, low whistle. "All right," she said, "you win... Truce?" She stuck out her hand.

John blinked, then shrugged inwardly. _What the hell. _"Truce," he agreed, and shook it.

From there it was only a few minutes' walk to familiar territory. Well, as familiar as any territory in this London could get. The sign for Tooting Records just had time to sink into his consciousness before Tonks all but dragged him into the Leaky Cauldron again. "Here, I thought we were going to-"

"Diagon Alley, yes," she assured him. "It's right this way."

They didn't stop in the pub this time. They passed a few things John would've liked a closer look at- a couple of elderly witches huddling over smoking glasses, a fellow in purple smoking a long, skinny pipe- but Tonks merely threw a wave in the barman's direction and kept on walking. Diagon Alley, it seemed, lay out the back door. Or something did, anyway; on first sight the only thing behind the Leaky Cauldron was a narrow, high walled bit of nothing, littered with the occasional sad piece of trash.

John stuck his hands in his pockets, looking around thoughtfully. "This where you draw the circle on the ground, then?" he asked at last.

Taking out her wand, Tonks shook her head. "No, this is where we tap-" She frowned a little, silently counting along the bottom of the wall. "the right-" Her wand moved upward momentarily. "-brick," she finished, swiftly rapping the third-over, second-up brick several times. On the third tap the wall suddenly parted, sliding apart to reveal a street full of people where nothing but building could logically be.

He should've been impressed, or perhaps he should've made some sarcastic comment. John knew she was expecting _something _from him. But really, all he felt was relief. He'd _felt _it as the wall opened, the sorcery that offered passage to this place washing briefly over his burned-out nerves like a physical reassurance. No, this wasn't what he was used to- but it was close enough, it wasn't the damn broomstick or the King's Cross barrier or any of the other things he'd seen so far. Whether the magic was in the wand or the bricks he didn't know, but it was something he knew he could handle.

"You okay, John?" Tonks asked, peering up at him curiously.

He cleared his throat, nodded. "Yeah," he said, a little hoarsely. "Nice trick."

Tonks looked back at the portal. "What, this? This is nothing. Come on."

'Diagon Alley'- he saw no street sign, but Tonks assured him this was the place- was a winding, cobbled street lined with shops of all kinds. A ferocious stink of bad eggs rolled out the door of one place; when he looked its way he shuddered, reminding himself not to fall ill if that was what one could expect from a wizard apothecary's. Another shop looked like a restaurant-supply house at first glance, but a closer look revealed that what he'd thought were pots were instead cauldrons of differing sizes and metals. There was a place with brooms in the window, which John resolutely refused to even look at, and a stationer's whose sign boasted of the latest in quills-

And the people. Oh, God, the people. John and Tonks were just about the only two in sight who wore what he considered normal clothing. The others- and there were others every which way he looked, despite the morning hour- were robed, hatted folk he could only pray were witches and wizards. No one else had any excuse for dressing like that at this time of year. If anything, they were even more ludicrously attired than the people he'd seen in Hogsmeade. John half expected them to suddenly burst out in random fits of street choreography. "Is it always like this?" he asked, eyes lingering on a skinny, scraggly-looking fellow in faded red plush robes and a hat on which occult symbols had been marked in tarnished sequins.

"Oh, this is nothing. You ought to see it last week of August, when the kids are all here shopping with their parents- oof!" She'd dodged an elderly witch with a basket full of something squirming, but at a cost of stumbling into John instead. "Sorry- ow-"

"It's okay. Here, are you all right?"

Tonks winced as she righted herself, rubbing at her hand. "Merlin... what've you got in those pockets?"

"Never you mind," John said hurriedly. He had a feeling the brass knucks wouldn't go over very well. "How much further to this wand place?"

"Not that far. Past Gringotts a ways." Indeed, there was a gleaming building ahead of them- marble, it looked like, but John couldn't tell for sure. The sign over its burnished bronze doors proclaimed it to be Gringotts Wizarding Bank before fading into far smaller type which John did not bother to read. It was the guards of the place who caught his eye- a pair of wizened little creatures in scarlet uniforms, neat as any Royal Guard but about as human as-

John tapped Tonks' shoulder. "Demons?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.

Tonks looked, shook her head. "Goblins," she answered casually. "You couldn't get a demon here if you tried, they're placebound-"

"So you _do _have them, then."

"Well, yeah- kelpies, grindylows, stuff like that."

"Gr- what? Evil fish-men, sort of thing?"

"Right. Not very bright, though. Got really brittle fingers."

They were almost past the bank now. John reluctantly turned away from the sight of one of the goblins surreptitiously picking its nose. "But those things-"

"They're goblins, they run Gringotts. I wouldn't like to be on their bad side, but they're not what you'd call Dark."

John shook his head slowly. "Is there a book on them I could get today? Dumbledore said I ought to pick up a text or two."

Tonks frowned, stopping mid-pavement to scratch at her nose as she thought. "Well- there's books, but- here, how much did he give you?"

John fished the coins out of his pocket and handed them to her. She counted them over, then nodded and passed them back. "Thought so. Got enough there for a wand and two books- three, if you're lucky. I expect he's testing you, to see what sort of books you spend your money on."

"Mm."

"Mind if I give you a suggestion?"

He glanced over at her, nodded.

"Stick to two," Tonks advised as they started walking again. "Books, I mean. And don't try to spend all you've got on those books, either. If you're going to be staying with Hagrid..." She trailed off, hands making a vague 'fill in the blank, would you?' gesture.

He held up one of the coins, turning it over to examine the stubby wyvern under the words UNUM GALLEON. "Not exactly the sort of thing you can spend at Tesco's, is it," he murmured.

Tonks laughed. "That a Muggle market, then? There's a grocer's in Hogsmeade, you'll do all right. I'll show you. Come on, this is Ollivander's here."

The narrow little shop didn't look like much, despite a sign boasting an age John couldn't possibly believe. There wasn't even a proper window display, only a wand resting on a cushion long past its prime. Of course, even here looks could be deceiving, so John swallowed his misgivings and followed Tonks in. "Popular place, is it?" he asked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

"Only place in London to get a really proper wand," Tonks answered cheerfully, leaning over to peer at the stacks and stacks of boxes that lined the walls. "Of course, it's the wrong time of-"

"I know that voice." It was an odd, dusty-sounding voice, and it was filled with dread. "I hadn't thought to see _you _here so soon."

Startled, John opened his mouth, but Tonks spoke first. "It's not for me this time, Mr. Ollivander."

A grey-haired man with a lined face and eyes of pale silvery grey emerged from the rear of the shop. His suspicious gaze was locked on Tonks. "As I recall," he said slowly, "that's what you said on your _last _visit."

"Yes- well-" Tonks grinned sheepishly, turning to John with a momentary pleading look.

"And when I asked to see _your _wand, you'd Spellotaped the pieces together-"

"She's right," John broke in. The pale eyes snapped immediately to him. "We're here for me."

Ollivander peered at John for several long, long moments. "You're _quite _sure?" he asked at last. For once the question didn't get up John's nose; he nodded.

Still not entirely satisfied, Ollivander coughed and expectantly held out a hand to Tonks. "Sorry, John," she murmured as she passed her wand over to the shopkeeper. "It's just- well- I've a bit of a reputation for being hard on my equipment."

He smiled wryly, saying nothing. Ollivander was busily inspecting Tonks' wand, comparing it to a measuring tape that unfolded by itself, and ultimately producing a gust of icy mist from the end. "Well," the shopkeeper said at last, "I suppose you _have _been careful with this one. Although-"

"Yes, yes, I know, more polishing," Tonks said hurriedly. "Look, my friend here's in need of a wand-"

The shopkeeper, who did not seem to have blinked once since they'd entered the place, considered John again. "A wizard without a wand?" Ollivander murmured. "Curious."

"Left mine in me other suit," John said dryly.

Ollivander inclined his head. "A small joke, I imagine... Sir, my business is not to ask _why _you have come here. It is only to rectify that need." _Good, 'cos I'm getting tired of explaining, _John thought. "Now- if you please- which is your wand arm?"

John held out his right arm for inspection. Ollivander's tape measure had just extended along his forearm when there came a _crash! _from the other side of the shop; both men froze. "Sorry!" called Tonks. "I, ah-"

"Miss Tonks," said Ollivander in a carefully controlled tone, "I would take it as a great favour indeed if you would kindly wait outside my shop."

"I'll just put these back, shall I?"

__

"Now."

"Ah. Right." A small bell tinkled somewhere overhead as she left.

Ollivander heaved a mighty sigh and shook his head. "A fine Auror she may be," he muttered, directing the tape this way and that, "but no man's life or property is safe when she's about. Now, sir, if you would please hold still a moment?"

"What's it want with the size of my nose?" John asked, resisting the urge to sneeze the tape away.

"There are reasons, Mr... ?"

"Constantine."

"Thank you, that will be enough." The tape folded itself up and dropped into Ollivander's waiting hand. "Wand selection is a delicate art. Whoever sold you your last wand ought to have told you that."

John grunted, looking around for a place to sit. The only available option was a lone, rickety-looking chair, which he did not entirely trust. "How d'you know it wasn't you?"

Ollivander made a noise that might've been a laugh, or merely a sniff. "Mr. Constantine, I remember every wand I have ever sold. I assure you, if you had come into my shop before, I would know." He turned to the boxes lining the walls and ran his hand along one of the shelves. "Here," he said, "try this. Alder, eleven inches, phoenix feather."

"Excuse me?" John asked as politely as he could, even as he reached into the box.

At that, Ollivander smiled- a thin, dry expression, but a smile nonetheless. "Whatever the standards of foreign wand-makers, here at Ollivander's we build _all _our wands around reliable cores. There will be no veela hairs or powdered re'em blood here, thank you."

John was only half listening. He'd started to pick up the wand, but before he could even grip it properly a feeling of _don't even bother _had come over him. "Phoenix feather, eh?" he said, settling it back in the box. "Nice..."

"And wholly inappropriate, I see." Ollivander whisked the box away and proffered another. "This one next, I think. Apple wood, dragon heartstring, thirteen inches-"

"I don't think this one suits me either," said John.

"Excuse me?"

John shrugged, holding the wand up to be seen. Ollivander grimaced immediately. "Yes, you're quite right. I think- hmm- try this one instead. Hawthorn, springy indeed, nine inches-"

John grabbed the wand out of the box, only to find it vibrating in his hand. "Is it supposed to do that?" he asked, clamping both hands around it.

"No. Put it back right- _thank _you." Ollivander shook his head and pulled down another box. "Rowan-"

He didn't even have a chance to touch the fourth wand. It rolled to one side as Ollivander lifted the lid, apparently making for the edge of the box. When John's fingers approached, it froze, then began to vibrate even faster than the one before. Ollivander whipped the box away and silently presented another, which leapt out of John's reach and rolled halfway across the floor before it could be stopped.

"A man could get a complex about a thing like this," John observed as Ollivander snatched the rogue wand up and returned it to its place.

"Indeed," said the shopkeeper. "Although- I would like to see something."

"Eh?"

Removing a mahogany wand from one of the nearby boxes, Ollivander placed it directly into John's hand. "Hold onto this," he said, backing away. "Tight as you can."

John eyed the pale man warily. "Well, all ri- _Jesus!" _White-hot pain tore across his palm as the wand ripped itself forcibly out of his grasp and flung itself across the room. "What the _fuck _was that?"

Ollivander picked himself up from the floor, dusting his front down. "Unicorn hair," he said calmly. With an air of some satisfaction, he located the wand and tugged it loose from the wall in which it had embedded itself. "As were the two before it. My apologies, Mr. Constantine, I should have warned you."

"Bastard." John squinted at his still-searing palm. "At least there's no splinters."

"Of course not. None of our wands would be so poorly made." Ollivander turned to consider the other boxes. "You do present something of a challenge, sir."

"Oh, I'm _so _glad of that."

The shopkeeper ignored him. "I think, perhaps... ah, yes." He half-disappeared into the dimmest reaches of the store, voice floating back behind him. "The wand _does_ choose the wizard, you know-"

"Here, you didn't tell me these things were sentient!"

"Hardly that, Mr. Constantine." Ollivander emerged, an ancient, battered, mildewed-looking box under one arm. "A metaphor at best- and yet they do seem to have a life of their own, at times. Every now and again a thing does find its way into exactly the spot where it belongs, does it not? And so we say it has chosen its home…"

John muttered something vulgar under his breath, flexing his fingers. Ollivander merely smiled and set the box down on the counter. "The wand in this box," he said, slender fingers resting a moment on the lid, "has been in my shop's inventory for a long, long time. It is- or was, rather- an experimental design, made before the Ministry standardized the uses of dragon components in wands. The wood is a remarkably flexible blackthorn, the core a wing sinew from a male Ukrainian Ironbelly. It has been tried, and rejected, by more than one hundred witches and wizards. I have not bothered presenting it for purchase in many years."

"So you're trying to fob it off on me?"

"Just try it, Mr. Constantine."

John rolled his eyes. "All right, all- hey!"

The jangling, curdled feeling that had riddled his nerves since the incident at the cash machine vanished as soon as his fingers closed around the wand. It was funny, really- he hadn't properly appreciated how much of an influence that low-grade ache had been having on his mood-

"Well? Go on," Ollivander urged.

He peered at the wand closely, not seeing anything that indicated how it ought to be used; the thought of Tonks outside Hagrid's hut occurred to him, and he experimentally flicked the wand in the same gesture he'd seen her make. A brilliant ribbon of blue-violet light spilled from the wand's end, twisting through the air of the shop like a miniature aurora. It shimmered in the air, twisting slowly about itself for a few moments, and then vanished. "Was it supposed to do that?"

The silvery-eyed man nodded. "An Ollivander wand will always signal when the right match is made. Congratulations, Mr. Constantine; you have found your wand. That will be nine Galleons, please."

John counted out nine of the gold coins and tucked the wand away. Outside, Tonks was waiting for him. She rose onto the balls of her feet as the door closed behind him. "Well?"

__

_Now or never, John. Let's see if it _really _works. _He withdrew the wand from his pocket, took a deep breath, and made the flicking gesture again. _"Lumos!"_

For half a moment, nothing happened. Then the end of the wand blazed into silvery-blue life, scouring away the last of the morning's shadows.

__

_Oh, yeah, _John thought smugly, _I've still got it._


	3. And Hope That This Is Just Imagination

****

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

Notes From The Field

Tonks v. pleased w/wand purchase. Apparently she thought I might be something called a 'squib'. Bit annoying having my credentials questioned at every bloody turn but the wand thing put paid to that. Squibs apparently same as Muggles only they're _supposed _to be wizards. V. embarrassing to wizard families, squibs.

Purebloods, Muggles, squibs, half-bloods, giant crossbreeds... am I mad, or is this 'Ministry of Magic' thing the sodding Kennel Club in disguise?

Any road, had to buy my books next. Tonks took me to bookshop- Flourish & Blotts- & begged off on grounds she had to make Dumbledore-related stop in Surrey. Said she'd be back in a few hours & that I should tell shopkeeper what I was looking for. Did not much care for idea of being left in unfamiliar magical bookstore, figured damn things might bite or something, but did not have much choice.

No biting, fortunately. Mr. Flourish quite clear on that. Said 'not this year, anyway' but did not seem inclined to explain. Came over all sympathetic when I said I was teaching Defense Against Dark Arts, led me straight to section on breaking curses. V. interesting stuff but a bit past what I'd teach kids, really. Said so. Flourish laughed, said curse books for _me _but if I wanted to wait on that then he had what I needed upstairs. Showed me to introductory texts, then had to leave as other customer came in.

Spent next 2-3 hrs. picking through books by myself. Not my first choice for how to spend an afternoon, but not a bad time, either. Got a decent intro to ugly side of local magic, which is always good. Found several books worth buying once I've got proper coin in my pocket (as The Shadowed Mind: The Imperius Curse And Its Associated Hexes, Spells, and Counter-Charms by Dionigi Maladorno not really lending-library stuff). Would have liked to copy down a few passages from some of the other books but no idea if Flourish has eye-in-the-sky spells on his ceiling. Had to commit good bits to memory. Will write out and check against real thing later.

Too many books to choose from in the end, so I asked about prior professors' choices. No need to duplicate what the kids have, after all. Defensive Magical Theory sounded all right, but turned up more like How To Roll Over And Die. Half expected to find chapter by Neville Chamberlain. Series of books by one G. Lockhart looked interesting, but mostly about monster hunting. Will have to come back for that. Not a lot to say about the others really. Only one worth buying was The Dark Forces: A Guide to Advanced Self-Protection. Was going to wait for Tonks to come back and ask her advice when fat red volume caught my eye. Unpleasant Things It Is Sometimes Good To Know wins my vote for Most Understated Title of the Year, I'll give it that. Nothing I'd teach kids straight off. Chapters w/titles like 'Unforgivable Curses And Their Counters' a bit above most youngsters, I should think. Me, I'd've traded an eyeball to know some of this stuff. Fortunately all Flourish wanted was a couple of Galleons. Settled up with him, made a few inquiries re: future purchases, & went outside to wait for Tonks & read my new books.

* * *

Magic, like any other subject, takes a very long time to learn. There are a number of ways in which the process may be made easier. Unfortunately for most would-be wizards and witches, none of them are particularly easy in themselves. When one sits down and calculates it all out, wizarding folk expend more effort on acquiring powdered dragon claw and Scintillating Solutions in order to boost their own cleverness at critical junctures than ever would have been spent had they simply sat down and done the studying in the first place.

John Constantine, it happened, had no such options. What he _did _have was a month in which to study and practice, and not much else to do. Granted, Hagrid always welcomed help with his gamekeeper duties, but that grew old very quickly. Spending any length of time in Hagrid's company made for one hell of an education in magical zoology, but John had a peculiar fondness for life's little pleasures: fingers that were still attached to his hands, eyebrows not being burnt off, things like that. The books were safer.

And, unfortunately, simpler. Dumbledore had been right about the similarity of their worlds' magical principles. There were entire chapters of the Guide to Advanced Self-Protection that John found he almost knew by heart- he'd taught himself the same material years ago, from books far older and less comprehensible. It seemed to be more a matter of channeling sorcerous power through established, expected channels and means. Once you understood the principle, it was a matter of memorizing the specifics- and _that _got old fast. At least, the specifics in the Guide did. From what he'd seen in the bookstore John knew there were far more complex (and interesting) magical procedures out there. They just weren't listed here.

The red book, at least, was more interesting. Unpleasant Things was an eccentric little compendium of all different kinds of magic- not all of the point-the-wand-and-whoosh variety, either. Jasper Barnes had apparently gathered up every kind of nasty, dangerous magical knowledge he could find and clapped it between two covers. The first chapter was a treatise on making potions, beginning with getting the skin off the boomslang and the bile from the armadillo; the second, a series of charts depicting the anatomy of British dragon species and how to go about butchering them for magically useful parts. Another chapter blandly laid out how to build a device called a Pensieve, which seemed to suck the thoughts from one's head and hold them in stasis. (John marked that idea down for later- he could think of a few times when not knowing certain things would've aided his poker face immensely.)

Most of it was like that, really. There wasn't much in the book that could be practiced under the circumstances, except for the chapter titled 'The Unholy Trinity: Unforgivable Curses And Their Counters'. Those were a set of three curses- fairly simple ones, it looked like. Punishable by a life sentence in some prison John had never heard of, but simple. 'Crucio' didn't sound like much to him- pain for pain's sake? That was it? All right, it _did _say if you kept it up you could drive your victim irrevocably mad. But still! Half the denizens of Hell-

He had to correct himself when thoughts like that came up. If there was a Hell in this universe, it either hadn't impinged upon the realm of the living, or it was far more subtle than he could possibly give any demon credit for.

No, as far as John could tell, here _all _the blame for evil lay in the hearts of human beings. When you looked at it like that, the Cruciatus Curse came off pretty bad. You had to _want _someone to hurt if you were going to cast it, and then you had to keep that wanting foremost in your thoughts as long as you held the curse in effect. Not as bad as the Imperius Curse, though. That was the act of magically shoving your hand up someone's arse and working them like a puppet, even to the point of getting them to cast spells of their own. Apparently it was all but impossible to detect, and could be cast at a distance and allowed to run its course without the caster being immediately present. While John _definitely _knew of some times when that would've been useful, he could think of about a hundred more situations where it would've been an utter disaster. Fortunately, the book included ways to counter both curses; John did his best to memorise those, but without another wizard on hand (Hagrid said he wasn't allowed to do magic), he had no way to practice them properly.

Little as he liked the situation, at least those two _had _counters. The third leg of this Trinity, the Killing Curse, was a bit less easily avoided. A line of bolded text read **How To Survive The Killing Curse**, but to John's dismay what followed was:

__

If you find yourself facing an Enemy who is both Proficient in this Curse and Willing to employ it, you would be Wise to recall that most Wizards find it quite difficult to hit a moving Target with any Accuracy. Flee from your Foe at an Angle, and change your Direction often, that his Spell might strike only Air upon its Arrival at your prior Location. Should a Broom be at hand, employ it immediately, recalling that those Wizards who do not often participate in Quidditch are not much given to thinking in three Dimensions. In fact, where possible, Apparate as far from your Enemy as you can, as swiftly as you have the Ability to manage.

"Fat lot of help _that _is, Barnes,"John muttered when he read that. He memorized the incantation for the Killing Curse away; it might theoretically be useful. Besides, if he got this teaching position- well, kids had short legs. The way _he _saw it, bashing the enemy's teeth in at 'Avada' would do them a hell of a lot better than running away at the end of 'Kedavra'.

There were other chapters, of course, and John studied them all. By the fifth or sixth read-through, though, even the chapter on negative astrological and astronomical influences had lost all novelty and charm. According to Hagrid's latest note, there was still more than a fortnight to go. Sure, he could spend the next two weeks practicing every last spell, charm, and incantation in both books until his face turned blue, but... well. Somehow he had a feeling that wasn't the way to go. Exactly what the way _was _he couldn't say, but that wasn't it. What he needed was to get away from the hut, consider his next move, and get in a proper smoke. The forest behind Hagrid's hut seemed tailor-made for that. Dangerous, maybe- Hagrid had said something about his best stock living wild in there- but it wasn't as if he planned to go in far. He scribbled out a note and left it on the gamekeeper's table, checked his dwindling supply of cigarettes, and set out into the woods.

It wasn't that he trusted the place, because he didn't. The trees seemed determined to keep as much light as possible from reaching the forest floor, and the very air smelled dank beyond what a city boy like John remembered of the green world. He wasn't entirely sure if the pebbles he'd dropped behind him would still be there when the time came to leave, either; there was something brooding and unpleasant about the place. Still for all that, once properly into the forest John found himself strangely at ease. He couldn't quite figure that out. It was as if-

__

_As if,_ he realised, _I've lived so long with the threat of death or worse hanging over me head that being someplace where no one and nothing cares who I am is unnatural. _His mouth twisted wryly as he settled down on a suitable rock and found his lighter. _Knew there was something wrong about this world. Wonder if making a few enemies will pick things up a bit?_

The smoke rose sluggishly from the end of his cigarette, twisting slowly in the humid summer morning air. Well, he thought, the enemies would probably take care of themselves. More important just now was the practice situation. And the money situation- that wasn't going to resolve itself any time soon, either. He knew better than to try and cadge another advance out of Dumbledore, and if the hut's condition was anything to go by, Hagrid wasn't a suitable source either. Tonks' advice had got him a decent supply of edible food, but at the cost of any further books; the lone Sickle and few Knuts he had left wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. The bookshop was in London anyway. What the train ticket would cost he didn't know, but he had a feeling it was more than he could afford.

More pressing than either money _or _practice was a purely mundane problem. Namely: _he was running out of smokes. _Oh, he'd had to ration his Silk Cuts before, but there'd always been the prospect of cadging another fag off someone somehow. Here? No. London had been devoid of tobacconists that he could see. _This _place- ha, if there were a pack for sale anywhere within thirty miles then he was the sodding Queen. Mind, the wizards _did _smoke, he knew that much- but it was pipes. Anyway, after the incident on the train he had a feeling Hagrid would take a very dim view of a trip to whatever shop in Hogsmeade sold their tobacco. Maybe if he could strike out on his own for a few days... no, he hadn't thought to take any money with him when he went after Tim, and even if he had a spell to convince a cash machine that he existed there was the little matter of no longer having a card with which to start the transaction...

So. No money. No way to _get _money, unless- no, no, he had those last few coins. Did wizards gamble? They had that Quidditch game, whatever that was. England might not smoke any longer, but some vices were the same wherever you went. There'd be wagering _somewhere. _As long as they didn't mind starting off with small bets- yeah, that'd do. That'd do _just _fine.

Considerably cheered, John tapped off a bit of ash and leaned back with an unwholesome grin. Something nudged at his shoulder as he did so; he twisted around. "Hagrid? I- _shit!"_

The thing behind him- well- the first he saw of it was shining spectre-white eyes in a black-furred head reminiscent of a dragon's. He'd have called it a horse, only horses looked more _alive. _This thing looked like a skin-covered toast rack on legs, save for the wings- great leathery batlike things that flared upwards as the creature and John stared at each other. One black hoof pawed lightly at the ground; slowly, John rose to his feet. "All right," he said, "I don't know what you are but I don't want any trouble-"

Its lips peeled back for a moment, revealing gleaming fangs, and it let out a cry that was half-whinny, half-yowl.

"Oh, _shit." _John's hand dove instinctively for his wand. "All right, if that's how it- euuuugh!"

It had _licked _him. Right across the face!

"Stop that!" he snapped as it leaned in to do it again. Pushing the head away did little good; the animal only rubbed its head against his shoulder and whuffled, sounding pleased with itself. "What are you- hey, get _out _of there." With an almighty shove he forced the beast's head away from his coat pocket. "Jesus. What the hell are you supposed to be?"

It flicked an ear at him, long black tail swishing idly behind, and sidestepped to rub its black hide against one of the trees. Seen from this angle, it had the look of a horse halfway through some ghastly transformation. Possibly it was the result of an experiment in cross-breeding horses and dragons, with a pinch of the undead thrown in. Certainly John couldn't remember ever seeing its like before- not among purely natural beasts, anyway.

It finished with the tree and turned back towards him, tossing its odd head a moment before nosing at his shoulder again. "Well," John muttered, "you're certainly tame- whatever you are." He laid one hand on its neck; despite the unwholesomely skeletal look, it had neither more nor less warmth than any living creature he could remember touching, and there was a very real feeling of breath and pulse beneath his hand. "I don't suppose you can talk? Hey, stop that." Apparently there was something about his coat that the ... horse...thing found endlessly fascinating. It certainly seemed to like the taste, but he wasn't about to let anything with fangs like _that _gnaw on any of his clothing, thank you. "Go on- shove off, you-"

Abruptly, a long, shrieking cry rang through the forest from the direction John had originally come. The beast's head came up swiftly, whipping around with ears pricked forward to face the cry's source; it whinnied (more or less) and stamped at the ground with both forefeet. Warily, John drew his wand again, but nothing showed itself. He glanced up at the creature, only to find its shining eyes fixed on him- an altogether disconcerting experience. "Look, it wasn't me," he said. "Friend of yours, maybe?"

There came another shriek. The beast lifted its head, wings flaring out as far as the trees would allow, and gave a shrieking cry of its own. John winced, wiggling one forefinger about in his ear. "You _could _keep it down, you know."

But he was not to be that fortunate. The horrid noise, it seemed, came from another of the creature's kind- smaller, yes, and not quite as loud, but very much the same animal. Definitely a friend of the first one, if the squeals and yowls they were making as they nipped at each others' wings were anything to go by. It would've had all the signs of a joyful family reunion if the creatures had looked a little less like the bloody walking dead_. _John shook his head, turning to slip through the trees and get away from the things.

It didn't work. He got no more than two steps away when he felt the nose in his back again. "Oh, no you don't," he said, deliberately not turning around. "I don't know what you are, but you're welcome to this place, the both of-"

Really, it was beginning to get tiresome, not being able to finish a sentence. The damn thing gave his back an almighty _shove, _sending him stumbling. He grabbed at one of the trees and narrowly averted a fall. "That's not funny," he growled as the smaller of the horse-things paced into view. "Both of you can just bugger off, all right? I'm leaving."

They didn't try biting him again. No, that would have been too easy. The damn things started followinghim instead, to his horror- and no amount of ducking between trees or doubling back seemed to shake them. Indeed, from the noises they were making, they seemed to think it was a game- and a thoroughly entertaining one at that. John didn't dare stray far from his pebble-trail, but he had no intention of leading the cadaverous creatures straight back to Hagrid's home. Abruptly he stopped, drawing his wand and pointing it at them.

"All right, you two," he said in what he hoped was a firm, authoritative voice. "I don't know what you are, and I don't know why you like me, but this is _it. _Either you stay right where you are and let me leave in peace, or you'll regret it. Got me?"

"'ere, now," came a familiar voice from behind him, "there's no call t'go talkin' t' Snuggles like that."

John closed his eyes, silently mouthing _"Snuggles?" _It wasn't happening, he decided. It just couldn't be happening.

"It's all righ', John," said Hagrid, sounding immensely pleased. "They're mine- well, they're th' school's, anyways. Never seen a thestral before, have yeh?"

"No," said John as evenly as he could. "I haven't. What the bloody hell _is _a thestral, anyway?"

Hagrid placed one great hand on the bigger beast's shoulder. It turned and nuzzled at the top of his head; the big man grinned. "These are," he said. "They're a type o' flyin' 'orse- this here's Snuggles, only 'is proper name's Tenebrus. Firs' one born 'ere at Hogwarts. Got me a herd of 'em here, they're jus' as magical as yeh c'n get, an' clever, too."

"It's trying to eat my coat, Hagrid," John pointed out as he twisted away from the smaller one.

"Ah, that's jus' Umbra, don' mind her. She likes yeh." Hagrid scratched the thestral next to him behind the ear; it pawed at the ground with one hoof again, whinnying happily. "Mus' smell good t'her, she's pretty shy, most o' the time."

"I'm not sure I _want _to smell good to these things, Hagrid. What are they? Some kind of undead?"

Hagrid's face took on an injured look. "Nah, they're alive, same as you 'n me," he protested. "They migh' _look _all skin an' bones, but they're alive, righ' enough."

"Ah. Very comforting- look, Umbra? Is that your name? Get _away- _Hagrid, _why _does she like me?"

"Well-" Hagrid looked up at Tenebrus a moment. "Dunno, really. They eat mean, an' they're attracted t'blood, an' yeh don' smell like _that-"_

"Thank you."

"-so, near as I c'n figger, it's somethin' else." He patted Tenebrus' neck, stepping away from the creature's side. It promptly joined its companion in examining John again. "Luck, mebbe- used to be people thought thestrals were unlucky-"

"I wonder why _that _was." John meant it sarcastically, but Hagrid took the question at face value.

"Well, see, most folks can't see 'em. Only way yeh c'n see thestrals is if yeh've watched someone snuff it."

John eyed the beasts sourly. "Been there," he said, "done that, met the girl behind it all..."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Umbra seemed to have lost interest, but Tenebrus continued to snuffle at John's arm. "So they're not death omens, then? They just look the part?"

"Yep."

"And you keep them here why?"

"Nothin' faster on the wing, 'cept maybe dragons," Hagrid promptly answered. "Dumbledore takes 'em t'London 'stead o' brooms, sometimes. An' they pull carriages righ' well, too. Can't ask fer a better sense o' direction, eith-" His voice faltered as Tenebrus bumped his head against John's side again. "Eh- John?"

"Yes?"

"What's he got in his mouth?"

Slowly- oh so slowly- John turned his head to look up at the thestral.

Tenebrus blinked down at him, the bedraggled remains of John's pack of cigarettes dangling from its teeth.

**__**

**_"Give me that!"_** John bellowed, lunging at the thestral with a sudden white-hot fury. It tossed its head up, dancing backwards; John's fingers missed the pack bottom by mere inches. "You- you-"

"John!"

He wasn't listening. He didn't care. The damn thing had his cigarettes! "Drop it," he growled, swinging one hand in a chopping motion at the thestral's windpipe. Tenebrus jerked sideways; the blow went wide. "Give those _back, _damn your eyes, _give those back-"_

Something in his coat pocket poked at him- his wand. He whipped it out with the speed of a striking snake, pointing it and shouting _"Accio Silk Cuts!"_

The spit-covered paper jerked forward. Tenebrus' lips closed abruptly.

__

"Accio-"

Tenebrus swallowed.

The only sound that could be heard was a slow hiss of indrawn breath. "Hagrid," said John, eyes not leaving the thestral, "tell me I didn't just see him eat my last fags."

"Ah- sorry, John. 'm afraid I can't do that."

Very slowly, John nodded. "Right," he said. "That's what I thought you'd say. You didn't like him very much, I hope?"

"Wha- John, _no!"_

For John had leveled his wand directly at Tenebrus' chest. _"Avad- _oh, fuck, get out of the _way, _Hagrid!"

The gamekeeper, who had leaped in front of the thestral with arms spread wide, shook his head.

"If you had _any idea _what that _thing _just did you'd agree with me. Get out of the way!"

"I'm not movin', John," Hagrid said resolutely. Were those tears in his eyes?

"Hagrid-"

"Nope. Not movin'."

John stared at the big man, frustration and rage and a dozen other things pounding in his head. Somewhere in the confused welter of it all a tiny, momentary voice of sanity said: _save that feeling, you'll need it later..._

He dropped his arm. Hagrid exhaled.

"If I ever see that thing near me again," John said through clenched teeth, "I'll wring its fucking neck with my bare hands, I swear to God."

"That's as may be," said Hagrid, "but yeh won' do it while I'm aroun'."

"Fine." John waved a hand dismissively. "Hope you've got a lot of time on your hands to play bodyguard."

"Look, John, he just-"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Can't you-"

"I _said _ I don't want to hear it. For all I know those were the last damn fags in all of sodding Britain, and Daddy's Little Death Omen here just ate them."

"Can't yeh make more?" said Hagrid, in a voice surprisingly plaintive for a man his size.

"That," said John, shoving his wand back into his pocket, "would require tobacco, and papers, and _that _would require money- unless you've got something hidden away in the cupboard, hmm?"

Hagrid shook his head.

"Then no. I can't. And he-" John jerked his chin at the beast. "-is dead the next time I catch him alone."

"But yer a _wizard! _Can't yeh conjure somethin'? Or transfigure somethin' into the stuff y'need?"

"What?"

Hagrid brought his hands together, making a vague woo-woo sort of motion. "You know- take a bundle o' leaves, mebbe a couple bits o' paper, do a Switchin' Spell t'make 'em into-"

"I can _do _that?"

"Dunno. Can yeh?"

John thought rapidly over the stuff he'd seen in his books. There'd been a mention of Switching Spells in the Guide, and a passing mention of conjuring in Unpleasant Things. No details, though. "Not... not right now, no," he admitted.

"Well," said Hagrid, "if we c'n fix that, will yeh leave Snuggles alone?"

__

_"If _it works," John said grimly, "I'll consider it."

Back at the hut, Hagrid went straight for the bedroom. "Jus' a minute- got it 'ere somewheres-"

John merely sighed. Exactly what they were doing he didn't know, and frankly, he was in no mood to find out. He dropped into the chair where he'd been sleeping- God, he was starting to hate that chair- and waited.

"Gotcha!" Hagrid emerged, beaming and waving a bundle of dog-eared papers over his head. "These'll do yeh, righ' enough. Me notes from third year Transfiguration- las' class I ever sat at 'Ogwarts." He held them out to John, who took them somewhat gingerly. "I burned all me other notes when I was expelled, see, bu' these- these, I kept."

"I see that." John glanced through a few of the pages. Hagrid's handwriting, though on the crude side, was large and clear enough to be legible. "And why was that, exactly?"

Hagrid took back the papers, shuffled through them briefly, and selected one to hand back to John. It had been the first page once, by the look of it- a date in early September, the class title, and the instructor's name: _Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. _ John looked up at that.

"Dumbledore's the only professor as didn' want t'see me expelled," Hagrid said gruffly. "Only class I was much good at, either, 'cept fer Care o' Magical Creatures. I dunno 'ow much good it'll do yeh, but I figger there's bound t'be summat in there ye'll be able t'use t' replace those- _things- _Snuggles ate. Won't las' long, probably, bu' yeh don' need those things t'last long, do yeh? Jus' long enough t' burn all th' way down."

Staring, John accepted the bundle of notes again. "Thank you, Hagrid," he said, much subdued.

"Yeh're welcome. Don't lose 'em."

"I'll copy-" He stopped. "Hagrid," he said at last, "why are you doing this?"

"Huh?"

"Loaning me these."

Hagrid blinked. "Well, that's obvious, innit? I don' want yeh goin' after Snuggles when I've got my back turned-"

"That's not it, is it, Hagrid?" John stood up, though it made very little difference compared to the other man's overall height. "Not the real reason, I mean. There's something else."

"I- I don't know what yer talkin' about." Hagrid turned abruptly, reaching for the kettle.

"Oh no?" John almost smiled, but caught it in time. "I think if it were _my _pet monster-"

"Snuggles isn't a monster!"

"-that someone else'd threatened to kill, I'd be snarling at him like a mad dog. And yet you didn't even take a swing at me in the forest; you brought me right back home and gave me these, just so I could resume a habit you don't approve of. They're obviously important to you... Give it up, Hagrid. What's your game?"

Hagrid shifted his weight uneasily from one leg to the other; the floor creaked.

John waited.

"It's the giant thing," Hagrid said at last. "Yeh spotted it firs' thing, in King's Cross, but yeh didn' seem t'care abou' it-"

"Should I have?"

"Well- yeh- everyone 'ere does. I dunno what it's like where yeh come from, John, bu' giants here- well, they've got a bad reputation-"

"What, fee fi fo fum, grind his bones to make my bread, kind of bad?"

"Yep," said Hagrid unhappily.

"Earned it, did they?"

Hagrid sighed. "'Fraid so."

"Right. And this carries over to you?"

"Most o' th' time, yep," said Hagrid. "The reputation, anyway. Bin like that me whole life, really... most o' th' professors were afraid o' me 'cos o' that, y'see."

"But not Dumbledore."

"No," said Hagrid. "Not Dumbledore." He finally set the kettle back down. "Said it didn' matter what me mum was, it was how I acted an' th' things I did that mattered- got 'em to let me stay on after third year. He didn't care. You don't either."

John looked at the papers in his hands. "I... see."

There was silence then, the uncomfortable sort that comes when there's really no excuse to putter around doing things that signal the end of a conversation. John was the first to break it. "Ah- Hagrid- got one more question for you..."

"Hm?"

"Have you got any idea how a man with one Sickle and seven Knuts to his name would go about making enough money to buy himself a few more books? I don't want to wear your notes out, after all."

Hagrid grinned.


	4. I'm Just Standing Here Selling

****

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

****

Notes From The Field

Got warned off gambling in strongest possible terms. According to Hagrid, most betting either run or funded by goblins. Little bastards get _nasty _when bets go wrong, dead clever detecting tampering (magical or otherwise) w/game, & find any excuse possible not to pay out. So just like home really, only kneebreakers much shorter & uglier.

Point is, haven't got enough money to make it worth their while w/o borrowing. Got no collateral either, so borrowing right out. Could come up w/something but right now not really looking for more trouble. Got better idea anyway after watching Hagrid fool about w/lighter trying to make it work. Fingers too big for job but still had trouble after watching me with it. Seems most wizard folk have no contact what-so-ever w/Muggles if can be avoided. Got classes in Muggle Studies here, also gov't branch for Muggle Relations, but no real comprehension of everyday things. Hagrid's curiosity, Tonks' comments re transportation gave me idea. Have borrowed ink, paper, quill from Hagrid. Signs should be up in Hogsmeade tomorrow.

* * *

Herbetha Riggs slipped into the Hog's Head, bag in hand. The place was grubby as they came, and the clientele was the very worst she'd ever seen- hags, werewolves, Merlin alone knew what else. Not the kind of place any respectable witch wanted to be seen in. Then again, Herbetha wasn't exactly on a respectable errand.

She sidled up to the grey-haired barman, eyes darting this way and that. He grunted, barely looking up from- well, she assumed he thought he was cleaning the pint glass, but she hardly saw how a rag so mucky a grey could be any kind of an improvement. "What'll it be?" he asked, setting the streaky glass aside.

Herbetha suppressed a shudder and held out the sign. The barman grunted again, jerking his head to one side. "Over there," he said; Herbetha's eyes slid in that direction, and the barman walked away. _Well, _she thought, _I... I suppose he _looks _the part..._

'He' was a man half-seated, half-sprawled at a table in the shadows. Unlike the other patrons, he wasn't wearing robes, but peculiarly arranged Muggle garments. The outermost seemed to be a- well, an overcoat, probably, but with a bewildering number of pockets and straps. His only concession to the unspoken dress-code of hidden faces and concealed identities was a battered grey hat, pulled down low in the front. Not a proper pointy hat, either, but some form of Muggle headgear she vaguely recalled seeing in a schoolbook long ago. There was a thin thread of smoke rising from under the front of the hat, though she could see no pipe.

The hat stirred a little. Herbetha realised that he'd seen her, and moved carefully to the empty seat at the stranger's table. Blue eyes peered at her from under the hat's brim. The stranger smiled; it sparked another shiver.

"A- a- are you- is this yours?" Herbetha asked, thrusting the sign at him. It read:

JOHN CONSTANTINE, MUGGLE EXPERT

CURIOSITY SATISFIED - DEVICES EXPLAINED

REASONABLE RATES - DISCRETION PARAMOUNT

ALL QUESTIONS ANSWERED - NO QUESTIONS ASKED

__

Call At The Hog's Head During Normal Business Hours

A soft chuckle rose from the shadows, and the stranger nodded. "Yep," he said, "that'd be me. What's your story?"

"Um-" Herbetha hesitated, half-in, half-out of her seat. "About those rates-"

"Ah, now, I can't quote you a price 'til I know what you're asking about." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone. "Start talking. I'll stop you before you get to anything that'd cost you. Fair?"

"Well, I- I suppose..." Herbetha nibbled at her lip, glancing around uneasily. "It's- well, it's my husband, you see."

The stranger nodded, reaching for the glass of firewhiskey on the table in front of him.

"Lately, he's- he hasn't been coming home at normal hours. He works at Scrivenshaft's, you see. Right here in Hogsmeade?"

"Yeah, I know the place."

"A- a- right. Right, yes... at any rate, about six weeks ago he sent an owl saying he wouldn't be home at the usual time, only he didn't say he was working late. Just that he wasn't coming home. It kept happening, too- several nights in a week- and when I asked him about it, he said he was off on 'business', or 'taking some exercise'."

The stranger gave a dry chuckle. "I don't know that it's _me _you need-"

"Yes, yes, I know, it sounds awful, doesn't it? Only I found out last week that there isn't another woman involved. It's all men... he's found this- this _group, _and they- well, all the rest of them are Muggles, and he won't talk about them, and I don't know what they _are!"_ The last word rose in a wail. "Just- well- look!"

Trembling, Herbetha reached under the table and pulled out her husband's bag. "He got _this _from them," she said, shoving the bag at the stranger. "And look here- I've got a photograph, a _Muggle _photograph mind you, of him and these Muggle friends of his. He dropped it-"

The man picked up the offered photograph and gave it a long look. Then he set it aside and took hold of the metal pull-tab on the bag, sliding it open with a _zzzz. _Figuring that catch out had taken Herbetha the better part of twenty minutes; seeing the stranger get it right on the first go- well, that spoke well for his Muggle credentials-

"Five Sickles."

"What?"

"You want an explanation, it'll cost you five Sickles." He tapped the table next to his half-empty glass. "Right there, if y'don't mind."

Warily, Herbetha nodded. She set the coins down on the table with as little noise as she could manage. The stranger's wand flicked briefly in the shadows, and they vanished from her sight.

"Right," said the man, leaning forward. "Here's your problem, ma'am: your husband's gone and got himself involved in the world of Muggle games. This is a regulation British Tenpin Bowling Association ball..."


	5. Devil And The Deep Blue Sea Behind Me

****

**DISCLAIMER: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

****

Notes From The Field

Demonstration for D'dore tomorrow. As Hagrid says D. no fool, going to assume 'demonstration' means 'unexpected assault w/Dark magics & creatures'. Least it's what I'd do in his shoes. Pockets therefore loaded, wand cleaned, & brass knucks shined up. Best defense = good offense & all that. Only need one hand to work wand anyway.

Muggle explanation business v. profitable. Half these people don't know _anything _about rest of England. Biggest customer: ginger bloke from out of town, turns up every other day w/bags of things he wants explained. To date this has included: compact discs, Swiss Army knives, duct tape, telephones (corded _and _cellular), smoke alarms, model aeroplanes. So far I have made enough money to buy five more books, couple of decent drinks, & edible meals for next two weeks (v. important- Hagrid considers stoats a source of sandwich meat). On Hagrid's advice, have put rest of money aside. V. likely I will be asked to wear robes for this job & would rather have enough to avoid looking like complete ponce.

Have not got hang of conjuring _ab nihilo _just yet, but getting close. Can't happen fast enough for me. Transmuted fags taste like shit. Book says conjured items only last 1-2 hrs. before vanishing. Big deal. Smokes not going to last that long anyway.

Wonder how they're doing back home without me.

* * *

John woke a little before dawn, a fact which surprised him greatly. Sometime in the past week or so he'd finally got used to the noise in the next room, and he'd been putting that fact to use by sleeping as long as he possibly could. The dog wasn't licking his face, the fire wasn't burning green, and nothing was exploding. Why was he-

Oh. The demonstration for Dumbledore. Right.

Grumbling, he got to his feet and prodded Hagrid's fire with the poker. Auditions were, in his experience, best faced with a lot of whiskey and a good backup band; as neither was available, he was going to have to settle for tea and whatever breakfast he could bodge together. Breakfast was usually the closest Hagrid came to making an edible meal, but the effect was mostly spoilt by the fact that his porridge was almost inevitably cold by the time John got around to it. A gamekeeper's duties, it seemed, started early of a morning. Today was no exception, either, if the note on the table ("Gone to Hogsmeade to pick up new arrival - back later - good luck!") was anything to go by.

Bugger. He'd been planning on asking Hagrid a few last questions. Well, at least it meant he wouldn't have the giant scowling over his shoulder as he picked apart the absolute last fag to escape the thestral's teeth; he'd found that the transmuted stuff wasn't nearly so nasty if there were a little bit of the material present that you were trying to imitate. Broke his heart, it did, ripping up perfectly good smokes that way, but until he could find a tobacconist's willing to admit that cigarettes existed this would have to do. A few torn-up blades of grass, a scrap of unusable parchment, a pinch of the original and a wave of the wand- there. That'd do for now.

Outside the sun was starting to rise, a sight John had grown much too familiar with of late for his liking. Mornings, so far as he was concerned, existed to keep night and afternoon from running into each other, and were best faced by being slept through. Which, naturally, meant that no one here felt the same way- everything else was already stacked against him, why should this be any exception? And it was going to _stay _that way for a good long while, too. Public school, after all. He'd be lucky if his classes weren't all scheduled first thing in the morning-

That stopped him: _his classes._ The idea was as incongruous as- well, as flying brooms and a sanitary London. Tim Hunter had been a one-shot deal. Yeah, he'd liked the kid and he'd probably do it again if it came right down to it, but that wasn't the same as teaching classes regularly for the better part of a year. Texts, homework, lessons- that was an everyday, legitimate _job. _True, it was still magic and he was only doing it to pay his way back home, but a regular job with a regular paycheque? Borderline _respectable, _that was. He didn't know whether to laugh or be appalled at the prospect.

He was just about to stub out what remained of the cigarette when there came a soft whir of wings overhead.

"Ow! Watch it, bird." John grumbled at the creature parked itself on the edge of the roof and hooted at him. Owl, all right, which would explain why it'd dropped the envelope square in his face. Turned out to be addressed to him. The note inside was written in purple ink in a thin, spidery hand:

__

Congratulations on having made it this far, Mr. Constantine. The demonstration of which we spoke a month ago will be held at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch in twenty minutes' time. Therapon here-

John glanced up at the bird, which was preening one of its wings. "Therapon?" he asked. "That you?"

It hooted at him again. John assumed that meant yes.

__

-will show you the way. Two of the current professors will be attending the demonstration as well, and possibly participating.

Best of luck,

Dumbledore.

John shook his head, folding the note back up and sticking it into his coat pocket. "All right, bird," he said. "Might as well get this over with." Therapon bobbed his head briefly before setting off across the Hogwarts grounds. John grimaced, chucked away what remained of his fag, and followed the owl.

The bird seemed not the least bit fazed by the daylight. In fact, the only thing that seemed to give it trouble was how slowly John walked, compared to its own winged progress. Periodically it circled overhead, hooting reprovingly; John found himself sorely tempted to stop where he was and see what the bird intended to do about it. Therapon was a good-sized owl, though, and even Yoyo (who'd been much smaller) was capable of doing a lot of damage. Somehow he didn't think Dumbledore would be too pleased if he showed up with talon marks across his face, or owl kebabs on a stick, either. At least the Quidditch pitch didn't seem to far away- that is, if the structure heaving into sight was the place they were looking for. Tonks had mentioned flying iron balls, and he could just about make out enormous sticks with hoops on the ends through what looked like half-disassembled seating.

Without warning Therapon dropped from the sky and landed on John's shoulder, provoking a short, sharp expletive. The bird's grip was surprisingly light, considering its size, but it still had claws. "Push off, you," he said, making an ineffectual shooing motion. "Go tell Dumbledore we're here."

"He already has," said the Headmaster's voice, sounding amused beyond all reason.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, John turned towards the sound. Sure enough, there stood Dumbledore, flanked by a pair of wizards John had never seen before. At least, John assumed they were wizards. He couldn't see anyone else being willing to dress like that. The one to his right was, not to put too fine a point on it, tiny. If the top of the little fellow's head reached John's belt, he'd have been surprised. He wore fussy-looking blue and grey robes over a violet waistcoat, and a pair of silver pince-nez perched, slightly askew, on the bridge of his nose. The other-

The other was a sallow, hook-nosed, dark-haired fellow dressed entirely in black, to a degree even a Catholic priest would've thought excessive. He stood half a head taller than Dumbledore, hands behind his back, his thin-lipped expression one of barely concealed distaste. His only acknowledgment of John was a brief flicker of his narrowed eyes as Dumbledore said, "Good morning, Mr. Constantine. You're early."

John shrugged; Therapon took off from his shoulder and settled himself onto Dumbledore's instead. "Didn't have anything else to do this morning," he said as the Headmaster passed some tidbit to the owl. "This the place, then?"

Therapon clicked his beak at Dumbledore and lifted into the air once more, spiraling up and over the pitch before vanishing from sight. "Indeed it is, Mr. Constantine. And these are my colleagues, of whom I spoke in the letter. Professor Filius Flitwick, our Charms instructor-" He indicated the smaller wizard. "And Professor Severus Snape, the school's Potions Master. Professors, I should like to present Mr. John Constantine."

Flitwick smiled, giving a jerky little bow of greeting. Snape inclined his head fractionally, though he said nothing. His expression, if anything, became just the tiniest bit more sour. Oh, _that _was a look John knew, all right. He nodded in return, rocking back on his heels. "Pleased to meet you both," he said shortly. "Come to see the new bloke blow himself inside out, have you?"

"I hope not," Flitwick said briskly. "These robes are brand new." The little wizard stepped forward a pace, looking John up and down with the air of a prospective horse-buyer- even circling around him as he spoke. "Hmm. So you're supposed to be joining our little family, are you? Let's see your wand, please."

John glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded. "Right here," he said, carefully producing the wand from an inner coat pocket and handing it over. "What are you-"

"Safety," said Flitwick, turning the blackthorn end over end and prodding at it with his own wand. "The Headmaster wants to see your hand at defensive magic, but not before we had a chance to be sure of your skills at the basics, eh? Merlin help us all if your wand gave way during the battle-"

"The what?"

"-but it seems to be in perfectly adequate condition," Flitwick continued, ignoring him. He turned away from the others, saying _"Rana!" _and making a hooking motion with the wand; several small, spotted green frogs leapt from its tip, hopping away at top speed. "Oh, that'll do nicely. Here you go."

Taking the wand back, John eyed the little fellow. "Go back to this 'battle' part."

Flitwick glanced up at the dour-faced Snape. "Oh, that? Why, Severus here is going to conduct that portion of the- er- thing. Right after I run you through the basic charms and spells to make sure you know them, of course." He smiled, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a moment. "Can't beat Severus when it comes to dueling, after all."

There was a narrow, resentful look in the sallow wizard's eye John didn't entirely like. He let it pass for the moment; it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. He'd been expecting something like this anyway. "All right," he said to Flitwick. "Where d'you want to start?"

"At the beginning, Mr. Constantine." Flitwick smiled encouragingly, conjuring up a long silver feather and setting it on the ground. "Levitate that for me, first of all."

That one was easy enough, as were the next several requests- vanish this, change the colour of that, and so forth. So far as John could tell, the minuscule wizard was taking his requests directly from _The Standard Book of Spells _series. He'd bought a few of those through Hagrid's assistance, reckoning that it'd look pretty poor for a would-be teacher not to know the most basic stuff. Well, it sure seemed to be paying off-

"PERFESSER!" came a distant, familiar voice. John's head whipped around; it was Hagrid, all smiles, a big wooden chest fastened with a silver padlock under one arm. "I'm not too late, am I?" the gamekeeper asked as he trotted up, a little out of breath. "Had t'sign fer this at the station."

Dumbledore shook his head. John missed whatever he might have been saying; Flitwick was making an impatient noise. "Don't go getting distracted just because this isn't the duel, young man," he said, hands on his hips. "You've still got a few more charms to go."

__

_Young? I'm forty-five, _John thought- and then thought better of it. Unpleasant Things had mentioned a wizard named Barington Ballingal, renowned for his homunculi and magical automatons. The book had said Ballingal died prematurely at the age of a hundred and twenty. Something about trying to transfer his soul into one of his creations, a younger version of his own body. He'd taken the statement for some bizarre kind of humour, but looking at Flitwick's wizened form he wasn't so sure. "All right," he said, turning back to Flitwick. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"Basic counters." Flitwick withdrew a mouse from his pocket and tapped it with his wand, murmuring something. A silvery bubble like a goldfish bowl surrounded the rodent's head. "Dispel that, please?"

John nodded. _"Finite Incantatum," _he said, aiming his wand at the startled creature. It gave a squeak as the bubble vanished, scampering off into the grass.

"Oh, bravo! Been practicing that one, I see?"

"Been practicing 'em all, actually." John nodded towards Hagrid, who'd set the box on the ground and was watching John intently. "He can tell you- I've been busy this month."

"So I hear," murmured Snape. John looked at him sharply, but the other wizard's eyes were fixed on the ground where the mouse had fled.

"All right, then," said Flitwick. "You're doing quite well so far- why don't we, er. . ." He faltered, gaze dropping as well.

Reflexively, John wheeled about, wand at the ready. The mouse, of course, was nowhere to be seen. What he _did _see looked almost like a living piece of the colour black, rolling out of the grass towards him. "Here," he said out the side of his mouth to Flitwick, "did you do that?"

"No," squeaked the little wizard, who had skittered backwards several paces. He held his wand at arm's length, the tip trembling. "That's no charm- that's a Lethifold! They only live in the tropics! Headmaster, where-"

__

_That _was all John needed to hear. He'd read about the things in one of Hagrid's bestiaries, and 'bugger' wasn't half the word he'd use for them. "What d'you want me to do with it? Patronus, right?" he asked, backing away.

"Eh? You? Um-" Flitwick stammered a moment, then nodded. "If, er, you don't mind?"

John winced. _That _charm had given him grief more often than not; he'd practiced it several times in the Forest, but never gotten more than silvery smoke and a cloudy shape no higher than his knee. _His _happy memories, he'd found, were few and far between.

__

_"Now, _Mr. Constantine. Assuming, of course, that you know how," said a voice. Not Flitwick's- Snape's. John shot him a glare-

And remembered. It'd been long ago, to be sure, but the _looks _on the faces of the Big Three... that was the kind of memory that could keep a man warm on the coldest night in Hell. John chuckled, low and quiet, and suppressed the urge to flip the Lethifold off as he pointed his wand.

__

"Expecto Patronum."

Streaks of silver flared briefly from the tip of his wand, shooting in all directions as the solid, stocky form of a bull terrier burst into existence. The scarred, ragged-eared dog launched itself towards the blackness, its bark echoing weirdly in the open air. The Lethifold froze, rippling uncertainly. Then, as the translucent dog leapt for its leading edge, it turned and flowed away with uncanny speed, making for the half-open box next to Hagrid's foot as if it feared for its very existence. It barely reached the box in time. The Patronus' spectral jaws were snapping so furiously at its rear that John could hear the fangs clashing from where he stood. The Lethifold gave a last heroic lunge and flowed into the safety of the box's interior. Hagrid slammed the box shut, locked it, and jerked it over his head, out of reach of the still-barking Patronus' raging leaps.

John glanced over at Flitwick, who was watching with an expression of surprise, and Snape, whose face had gone unreadable. "Did I do it right?" he asked as the dog's silver-white form faded away. "That _is _what it's supposed to do, innit?"

"Er- yes-" Flitwick dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, still shaking his head. "Well! That was. . . unexpected. Headmaster, you didn't warn us-"

"I didn't think I had to," said Dumbledore with a smile. "Between myself, yourself, and Professor Snape, I thought there were enough wizards conversant in that Charm to handle the creature if Mr. Constantine had proved inadequate. I do apologize for the scare, but I thought it might be instructive to see his unvarnished reaction."

John arched an eyebrow at Hagrid, who was wrapping a thick, heavy-looking belt around the chest. "Weren't my idea, John," the gamekeeper muttered defensively.

With a sigh, John turned back to Flitwick, who'd calmed down enough to look relatively composed again. "Right," he said. "What else've you got?"

"Ah-" Flitwick hesitated. "I don't think there's very much else that I need to see. You do seem- you haven't- well, you know your way around a wand, and you've got a good hand when it comes to spell safety-"

__

_Probably because the alternative back home's getting your lungs gnawed out by demons, _thought John.

"So- yes, yes, I think I've seen enough of your work, Mr. Constantine." The little wizard held out a hand; even though he stood on his tiptoes, John had to bend down to shake it. "Congratulations on that- and _good luck with Professor Snape!"_

The words came out in a slightly alarming half-whisper. John shook his head silently as Snape stepped forward, a markedly unpleasant smile on his face. "I'm told," said the Potions Master, "that it was a wizards' duel that brought you here."

"Dunno that I'd call it a _duel, _exactly." John's fingers tightened on his wand- that smile didn't sit well with him at all. "More of what you'd call a murder attempt."

"On you?"

"No."

"_By _you?"

"No."

"I see." Snape inclined his head, pacing away from the other wizards; John matched his stride. "So, then, it was merely recklessness which led you to your current situation, and not self-preservation?"

"Recklessness? Nah. Just an error of judgment."

"And what would that error be, do you think?" Snape wondered aloud, readying his wand.

Snape wasn't the only one who could smile evilly. John's unwholesome grin spilled across his face as he lifted his own. "Didn't use a big enough brick."

Snape's eyebrows went up; but the black-haired wizard's only reply was a flourish of the wand and a yell of _"Stupefy!"_

_"Protego," _John snapped, bracing himself as the shield shimmered into existence. The bolt of red light from Snape's wand dashed itself harmlessly to bits a few inches from John's face- much too close for comfort, although John was already scrambling away. He turned sideways- wasn't sure if he could cast spells through the shield, he hadn't tried-

__

_"Impedimenta," _said Snape almost lazily.

__

_WHAM. _It was as if an invisible brick wall had sprung up, throwing John backward several paces. Dammit, he was getting _tired _of hitting things with his face! He twisted about to face Snape before the next word could make it out of his mouth. _"Incendio, incendio, incendio!"_

The flames sprang eagerly to life- but not the wizard. Snape, who had been readying a Flame Freezing Charm by the sound of things, found himself surrounded on three sides by burning grass- rapidly spreading burning grass.

With a growl, he set about extinguishing the flames, which was exactly what John had been hoping for. _"Tarantellagra," _he said, aiming for the Potions Master's legs through the fire.

"Oh, _please." _Snape flicked his wand again, banishing John's curse along with a good portion of the flames. "I should have done this in the beginning- _expelliarmus."_

John whipped his right hand around behind his back, but even so the wand jerked in his grasp. He swore under his breath-

__

"Serpentsortia."

The black snake that shot from Snape's wand was at least as long as John's leg. It had the look of a mamba about it, or some other deadly snake of that family, but John wasn't about to stand there and stare at it long enough to say. He brought his wand back around and muttered, _"Leviosa,"_ intending to throw the thing back at Snape as hard as he could, but the gesture was too much. The snake let out an angry hiss as the spell grabbed it and flung it skywards.

"Oooh, that's goin' ter hurt," Hagrid muttered from the sidelines. John had almost forgotten the witnesses' presence. He turned and grinned-

"Bad form, Mr. Constantine," said Snape. _"Petrificus!"_

__

"Fuck!"

Snape had been aiming for John's torso and hands. It was only long years of experience in running for his life that saved John from a direct hit. The Body-Bind caught him in the leg as he dove, and though he was able to push himself back to his knees, his left leg refused to straighten so much as an inch.

__

_All right, _he thought, _no more Mr. Nice Bastard._

He twisted himself around and pointed his wand at the advancing Snape. "Y'shouldn't've done that," he said with another unholy grin. Without looking, John pointed his wand at the ground and snapped out the first spell to come to mind- _"Reducto."_

Dirt sprayed in every direction. It wasn't much of a distraction, but it'd do for what he had in mind- with a little help. He didn't have time to amplify his voice, but with any luck the words alone would be enough.

He drew a deep breath and got hold of the knucks in his pocket. "_Dia ad aghaidh 's ad aodann," _he intoned, starting to rise with his good leg. _"Agus bas dunach ort! Dhonas 's dholas ort-"_

The dust cleared. Snape was staring at him with an utterly baffled expression from barely a yard away. Just like he wanted.

__

_"Agus leat-sa!" _John bellowed-

There was a sudden, sharp smell of ozone, and the air between John and Snape shimmered with a horrid distortion. John fell back, flinging both arms up in front of his face. The magically paralyzed leg screamed in pain as he hit the ground again; he tapped it with his wand as quickly as he dared, murmuring the releasing spell under his breath.

__

_"What did you just do?" _cried Snape, who was staring at his hands and his wand with an expression of utter horror. "What spell _was _that?"

But it wasn't a spell, John thought. It was just a line out of Lovecraft! Not even one of the bits with blasphemous names in. Just some bloke going mad, the way they always did, only he started blithering in Gaelic before he lost it completely. What the hell had he just done?

Eh- he'd figure it out later. He hadn't got this far in life by wasting his advantages. _"Stupefy!" _he yelled, jumping to his feet.

The sound shocked Snape back to the moment in time to counter the blast, but John was on a roll. He pointed the wand again- at the box in Hagrid's lap. _"Accio box,"_ he said, not bothering to suppress the grin at Hagrid's startled expression as the chest leapt from his grip.

Snape hissed, circling sideways with his eyes on the box as John caught it out of the air.

__

_If I were you I'd be casting that 'expelliarmus', _John thought- but all he did was point his own wand at the padlock, and wait.

And Snape did not disappoint. _"Expecto-"_

With a mighty heave, John threw the chest at Snape's head. The other wizard's Patronus Charm broke off, replaced with a hasty cry of _"Leviosa!"_

Oh, it was just too perfect.

__

_"Petrificus," _said John grimly, pointing his wand at Snape's hands. _"Petrificus. _Oh, and- _silencio."_

The only sound beyond the _thud _of the chest hitting the ground nearby was that of Flitwick's soft, indrawn breath. John's spells had found their mark; Snape's hands hung uselessly at his sides, and not so much as a sound escaped him. True, he was glaring at John with the kind of rage that could melt through glass, but that was nothing new.

Still, John knew better than to assume the duel was over just yet. _"Expelliarmus," _he murmured, snatching up Snape's wand as it went flying. He turned, scooped up the Lethifold's chest, and smiled at the Headmaster. "That enough for you, then?"

"Oh, it should do." Dumbledore accepted both items, handing the chest to Hagrid. "You have an interesting style, Mr. Constantine. Tell me- exactly what was that spell you cast? That sounded like Gaelic, if I'm not mistaken."

"Er-" He hedged for a moment, thinking he might cobble together an explanation. There was a certain keenness in Dumbledore's eyes that hadn't been there before, though, and it didn't speak well of his fate if he were caught in a falsehood now. Opting for the most literal version of the truth, he said, "Translates as ' God against thee and in thy face, and may a death of woe be yours. Evil and sorrow to thee and thine,' actually."

"I see," Dumbledore murmured. "So you-"

"I improvised." He glanced over his shoulder at Snape. "But I'm thinking it was a bad-luck charm, by the way things turned out."

Flitwick squeaked excitedly. "Fortune manipulation- why, that's something I haven't seen in _decades! _Mr. Constantine, I'd like to see more of- er- sorry, Headmaster," he added in an undertone.

"Quite all right, Filius, quite all right. John, would you mind?" Dumbledore gestured towards Snape meaningfully.

"Oh- yeah." He looked towards the silently seething Potions Master. _"Finite incantatum."_

The smell of ozone died away. Snape flexed his fingers several times, then cleared his throat experimentally.

"Sorry about that, mate, but the man _did _say 'battle'. All's fair in love and war, eh?"

"Hmph." Snape turned sharply away from John, crossing his arms over his chest.

John shrugged to himself- he hadn't really been expecting anything else. "So. . ."

"I believe at this point we'll have to go up to the castle," said Dumbledore. "To discuss your contract. Mind you, we _will _need to repair the turf first." He smiled. "The fire was an interesting touch."

"Some things you can't ignore no matter _how _badly you want to kill the other fellow," said John. "I learned _that _early on."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, still smiling as he tossed Snape's wand back to him.

Instinctively, John hit the ground and rolled sideways. None too soon, either, as Snape's Blasting Curse seared into the ground where John's feet had been moments before. He came to a stop with his wand pointed up-

Straight into the grimly determined face of Snape, whose own wand was trained squarely on the center of John's chest.

"Tell me, John," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "If one of your students found himself or herself in this situation, what would you advise them to do?"

John swallowed. Eyes never leaving the Potions Master's face, he said, "Well, Headmaster, I'd say he's standing in a very bad place."

"Oh?"

John nodded. "Oh yes. At this point, I'd tell my pupil to start on a spell, and-"

"What spell, if I might ask?"

"Doesn't matter," said John, "'cos it's just a distraction. From where I'm lying I can get off a good kick square to the goolies faster than he can hex me."

"Interesting," said Dumbledore. "Very well- Severus, you may stand down now."

Snape's lips thinned fractionally as he stepped away, lowering his wand.


	6. In Dreams Begin Responsibilities

****

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

****

Notes From The Field

PROBLEMS I AM ALREADY HAVING WITH THIS BLOODY SCHOOL:

1. The grounds are _entirely _too big for a lazy bastard like myself to navigate on foot. And the only alternatives to 'on foot' are brooms and ghastly flying horses that eat meat and cigarettes.  
  
2. There is a giant squid in the castle's pond- sorry, lake. Ordinarily I wouldn't care, but it _waved _to me as Dumbledore led the way up to the castle. Look, you're a bloody freshwater kraken, would you mind showing a little dignity? I dunno, devour the local birds or something. Nothing with that many tentacles should be acting like a puppy.   
  
3. The paintings move. Not a repetitive loop, either. I mean _move. _And _talk. _Damn things are sentient. According to D'dore, _all _wizard pictures are like that, including photographs. (Wonder if I can lay my hands on some wizard porno?) They've got memories, too, and they can jump from one painting to the next. Could be useful, but damn, I'll bet that gets old fast. Better not find out they do official portraits of professors here, that's all I've got to say.   
  
4. The stairs. Some of 'em move. Not all of them, just some. Others disappear. Some of 'em look like they're there, but they're not. Suppose that's _one _way of keeping the older kids from sneaking in booze.   
  
5. The ghosts. . . well, no. I don't mind those so much. They're all right, I guess, except when they crop up in the middle of something. Walked through one by mistake when I followed D'dore around a corner. Most of 'em seem to be over the fact that they're dead, and anyway, everyone at the school can see 'em. Not half as cranky as the ghosts back home, either, from what I've seen. They've also got a poltergeist, which D'dore says isn't the same thing, but I've not met _him _yet.   
  
6. No tunes, no phone, no telly. If it runs on electricity, it won't work here. No exceptions. Entertainment options went down the toilet before my eyes when D'dore said that. (At least they _have _toilets, I was starting to worry about that.)   
  
7. The clothes. Hagrid was right. I'm going to need robes.   
  
8. The ethics clause. . .

* * *

Constantine stepped out of the Headmaster's office, and the door slid shut behind him. Well, he'd done it; he'd got himself a proper job. Signed the contract and everything. They'd house him in the castle, they'd provide meals, they'd handle all the other services. He'd even be paid twice a month, though Dumbledore had suggested pretty strongly that he should look into getting a vault at Gringott's and having his pay sent there. All in all, really not a bad set-up.

There was just one catch.

"This is a school, Mr. Constantine," Dumbledore had said. "We teach _children _here. Our professors are expected to maintain a certain level of dignity. For as long as you are acting in a professorial capacity- and in practical terms we will say that this means 'as long as you are on the Hogwarts school grounds outside your quarters'- you may not swear, nor smoke, nor become intoxicated. What you do in your own time is your own business, but you will refrain from such behaviour in the presence, or possible presence, of the students here."

He'd agreed. He didn't have much choice. The ethics clause had gone into the contract almost exactly as Dumbledore had spoken it- one of those animated quills had taken down the entire thing. Bloody useful things, those. John made a mental note to buy one with his first paycheque- no, they paid in gold here, didn't they? Yeah, wizards didn't seem to have the hang of paper money. Bally strange if you asked him- gold got heavy fast. With another shake of the head, he headed down the hallway Dumbledore had said led to his quarters in the castle.

Two minutes later he was lost. He could deal with the moving staircases, but he was completely unfamiliar with the school's layout. Dumbledore's description hadn't helped much. What he needed was a _map, _but there was no such thing available. He tried to retrace his steps, thinking he might ask someone else for directions, but only found he'd got himself turned around even worse than before. He was pretty sure he'd passed that one-eyed hag statue coming from the other direction a while back, but would've sworn it was on a different floor entirely then.

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. "This is _bollocks," _he muttered. "I need a goddamn smoke-"

"AAAH AHAHAHAHA!"

The shriek of laughter jerked John upright. Floating just in front of him- _just_ in front of him, inside the bad breath zone- was the ugliest grin he'd ever seen. It was sprawled across the face of someone he didn't recognise, but given that the person was floating in mid-air and wearing clothes that'd make a golfer cry, he reckoned it was the poltergeist he'd been warned about. "What's so funny?" John demanded.

"Couldn't do it, could he? Wasn't even five minutes!" The poltergeist- Peeves, John remembered- cackled and did a backwards somersault in mid-air. "Saw your contract! No swearing on the school grounds, John Constantine!"

"Oh, _bugger-"_

"Did it again!" Peeves pointed at John and laughed so hard he floated halfway across the corridor. "Dumbledore ought to know of this, he ought. New teacher's as bad as the students! Peeves heard!"

With an enormous effort of will John restrained himself from doing more than rolling his eyes. "I suppose you did," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "What would it take for you _not _to have heard it?"

Peeves stopped laughing, but the wicked grin remained as he folded his hands under his chin and stared at John. "Don't know," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Never been bribed before. What've you got, Professor?"

John started to pat down his pockets, mind racing. It wasn't as if he had been carrying much when he'd set out this morning, but maybe-

"GAH!" he cried as everything suddenly went wet and icy cold. The naff bastard had been concealing a water balloon!

"Never been bribed before! Never will!" Peeves cried, handspringing from wall to ceiling to wall. He let out another high-pitched string of giggles.

John gritted his teeth, pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes. That bloody poltergeist was still bouncing around nice as you please, sing-songing something he couldn't quite make out save to grasp that it was _very _insulting. Here, had it just flipped John off? "You! Peeves!" he called out, hand dipping into his pocket.

Peeves stopped in midair, smirking at John through his legs.

Taking a deep breath, John plastered a smile across his face. "Got something for you," he said.

Cocking an eye at John, Peeves started to speak. It didn't happen. In two heroic strides John crossed the space between himself and the poltergeist, hand already drawing back as he moved. The knucks smashed into Peeves' nose with all the force the man could muster, sending the pest somersaulting end-over-end down the corridor and out of John's sight.

Exhaling, John slipped the knucks off. He'd forgotten about the ghosts. He'd have to be more careful.

As John finally found his way back to the entrance he and Dumbledore had used, something made a soft, insistent noise just behind his shoulder. Sighing, he turned and found himself face-to-face with a proper ghost. This one looked considerably older than the far more solid Peeves, and wore robes of a more antiquated style than any John had seen yet. They glimmered with silvery, ectoplasmic bloodstains as the ghost blinked his blank, staring eyes. "Professor Constantine?" it whispered in a voice almost too quiet to hear.

"That's me," said John warily.

The ghost's mouth twitched as if it had forgotten quite how to smile. "Congratulations," it murmured.

"On what?" John asked. He doubted it was about the job.

"On the events of the second-floor corridor." The ghost folded its hands serenely. "It would appear there are now _two _at this school whom Peeves fears." And with that, the ghost dropped through the floor, its message apparently delivered. John made another mental note to keep an eye out for the things, and underlined the note several times while he was at it.

He looked up from the spot where the ghost had disappeared and saw a cluster of three or four more. Unlike the whispering entity he'd just met, they bore no wounds or marks that he could see, no sign of how they'd been killed. And they were watching him, goggle-eyed; when they saw he'd noticed them they drew back a little, almost as one. "What's the matter?" he growled. "Break another school rule, did I? Can't a man have a civil conversation with the dead?"

They fidgeted uncomfortably. Eventually one, a pudgy fellow who looked like he ought to be playing Tuck in a production of Robin Hood, spoke up. "Ah. . . not with the Bloody Baron, Professor." He smiled. "He doesn't get on well with anyone, you see. Not even with his fellow ghosts."

God, John wanted to swear.

The ghostly clergyman smiled. "I'm sorry, Professor. Where are my manners? Welcome to Hogwarts. And- since the Baron failed to say it- congratulations on your new position."

"Thanks," said John. "I'd shake your hand, but-"

"It'd go right through. Yes, that _is _one of the hazards of being dead, isn't it?" The ghost laughed; the other two started to drift off on their own errands. "No matter. _Do _allow me to introduce myself; everyone calls me the Fat Friar."

"Name's John Constantine. You don't want to know what people call me."

The ghost chuckled. "If you say so, Professor. Pardon me for saying so, but you look a bit out of your depth. May I be of assistance?"

"Depends," said John, hands in his pockets. "Can you get me to where I'm supposed to be staying? Dumbledore said it was on the fifth floor somewhere."

"Oh, yes, the old conservatory rooms. I remember them well." The ghost sighed fondly. "Quite the echo they had in my day. . . Right this way, Professor."

The Friar drifted off towards the staircase; John followed. "Conservatory, eh? Wizards not much for music these days?"

"Well- they are- but the subject's no longer taught, I fear." He shook his head sadly. "Time was when even a wizard was expected to be familiar with the arts of music and song."

John glanced at the walls, noticing the portraits whispering to each other and pointing his way. "Were you a wizard then? You don't look it, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Oh, my, yes. Yes, I was. I didn't become a Franciscan until well after school."

"Bet the magic must've gone over well at the monastery," John murmured.

The ghost heaved a sigh. "It never came up, actually," he said mournfully. "I was asked to leave the order before taking my final vows. The prior didn't think I was properly suited for the religious life, and wouldn't listen to a word I said in my own defense. After that there wasn't anything for it but to come back here and teach." John made a noncommittal noise as the ghost indicated which of the stairs ahead were safe. "Wasn't what I was hoping for, of course, but I made the best of it. I've been here ever since, really."

"Yeah?" They rounded a corner- or, rather, John did. The Friar merely passed through the stone. "No one's asked you to move on since then?"

"Merlin, no. No, I serve as the House ghost for Hufflepuff-"

"The who for what?"

"House ghost. Each of the Houses has a ghost affiliated with it. I'm for Hufflepuff, the Baron's for Slytherin- er- did the Headmaster explain the Houses to you?"

John shook his head. "Said the hat behind his desk was for sorting kids into their Houses, but that was about it."

"Ah. Well, then- oh, _do _mind that stone, it's got a Trip Jinx soaked into it that Professor McGonagall hasn't dispelled yet- would you like an explanation?"

__

_Have I got a choice? _wondered John, but all he did was nod.

The Friar smiled, turning about so that he drifted backwards as he talked. "Oh, good, I _do _enjoy clarifying things. All right, let's see- yes. Hogwarts was founded a little over a thousand years ago- you know that, of course? Good, good. The founders were two wizards, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, and two witches, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff." His smile grew a little broader, despite the fact that his right arm had just vanished into the wall. "Before that there really wasn't any kind of formal education for magical youngsters- if you weren't apprenticed, your parents had to teach you. It wasn't the best of times for wizarding folk, though- there was terrible persecution by Muggles, all up and down the length of Britain, so it simply wasn't safe to hope for the best any more. They built this school on land that had been in Rowena's family for ages, and set about choosing which students to accept, each according to their preferences."

"And the houses are named after each of them?" John asked, hoping to head the ghost off before the conversation got any longer.

"Indeed, indeed- and continue their philosophies and preferences to this very day. No, don't touch that-"

"Sorry." John jerked his hand back. "Thought it was a window."

"Enchanted tapestry, I'm afraid. Looks like the outside world, but it bites if you try to move it."

"Ah." John examined it from a safe distance, and briefly entertained the thought of prodding it with his wand. "There a lot of those around here?"

"Thankfully, no. Where was I?. . . ah, yes, the Houses. Gryffindor believed that the best hope wizarding folk had in the face of the Muggle world's hatred was bravery and valour, and so he took any students who had magical talent and the nerve to match. Slytherin, on the other hand, felt that Gryffindor put too much faith in his students' families, and refused to take any students whose families were not exclusively magical."

A sinking feeling trickled into John's stomach as he realised the ghost wasn't going to shut up. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Pure-bloods?"

"Exactly. Mind you, not _every _pure-blooded student met with his approval; Salazar Slytherin wanted students who would be architects of a glorious future for wizard-kind. Only the most ambitious and driven for him!" The Friar shook his head, adding, "Mind you, he let more than a few unsavoury candidates in- cunning, more than driven, really. I believe he felt the worst influences could be countered in time so long as their intentions were for the best."

"Where've I heard _that _before?"

The Friar sighed. "I'm not saying I approve, Professor, I'm merely relaying the facts. Ravenclaw was his biggest competitor, mind you. She didn't think much of the quality of education at the time, and was absolutely _certain _that the right path lay in winning respect through intelligence. Pinched more than a few apt pupils out from under Slytherin's nose, she did." The Friar chuckled, indicating to John that he should pull aside a heavy red curtain. "And then, of course, there was Hufflepuff."

"Don't tell me she was into religion?" John said warily, stepping through the uncomfortably small door beyond that led to the fifth floor.

"Great Caesar's ghost, no! No, though certainly her sentiments were informed that way. At least, I tend to think so. She was the only one of the four who looked around her and saw _injustice, _rather than _competition. _Helga Hufflepuff believed neither wizards nor Muggles would ever have any peace so long as they continued to treat each other unfairly. While she couldn't change the Muggles of her time, she _could _change future generations of wizards, and so began by taking any student with magical capability who escaped the notice of the other three."

"Must've wound up with some real winners _that _way," said John, looking up and down the corridor. "Er- Dumbledore said there'd be a green door-"

"Yes, the one on the end." The Friar turned about again, bobbing along almost as if he were properly walking. "I won't say it was easy for her, or any of them, but they _do _seem to have managed. There've been a few changes, of course. Slytherin House has some mixed-blood members now that the Hat's doing the sorting, for example. But in essence and character, the Houses are reflections of their Founders."

"Good to know," said John. "So first time a dragon shows up to strafe the school, the Gryffindors'll be running off to get themselves killed fighting it, the Ravenclaws'll have to be dragged out of the library kicking and screaming, the Slytherins'll be fighting over who gets to rebuild once everything's burned down, and the Hufflepuffs'll be playing Red Cross once the beast's done taking everything else to bits."

"Er-" The Friar's ghostly face got an uncomfortable expression. "I suppose you could put it like that, yes. It's a bit of an over-simplification, though."

"Whatever." John tested the doorknob- unlocked. "There anyone else around here who can show me the way back once I've got myself settled in?"

"Professor Blodgett's rooms are on the other side," said the Friar promptly. "He teaches Ancient Runes."

"Blodgett, right. Anything I should know about him?"

"He's a decent enough chap," said the Friar after a bit of thought. "He was a Ravenclaw when he was a student here, but the House master is Professor Flitwick."

"Right, I- wait. What? Little fellow, teaches Charms?"

"Oh yes. Professor Flitwick is Head of Ravenclaw, Professor Snape is Head of Slytherin, Professor McGonagall is Head of Gryffindor, and Professor Sprout is Head of Hufflepuff."

Somehow the news about Snape didn't come as a surprise. The Friar started to drift backwards; John held up a hand. "One last question."

The ghost's passive progress stopped. "But of course!"

"I'm not going to wake up in the middle of the night and find one of you lot sitting at the foot of my bed, am I? What I mean is, are the rooms warded?"

"Warded? Merlin, no. No, they're not, unless individual professors have taken it upon themselves to do so. We ghosts do, however, understand the need for privacy, and stay out of professors' quarters by common consent."

"What about poltergeists?"

The Friar shook his head. "I shouldn't worry about Peeves any more, if I were you. After what you did, he'll go _well _out of his way to avoid you."

John nodded. _"Very _good to know," he said. "All right, I think that'll do it. Thanks for the help."

"Oh, you're welcome," the Friar said. With a smile and a wave, he sank through the floor and out of sight. John shook his head, resolving to ward his rooms regardless- just as soon as he figured out how.

It would take a fair amount of warding, it so happened. The rooms he'd been assigned were a fair bit bigger than his flat in London, worlds and worlds away. There was a wardrobe and a bed. Both were of some dark wood, very old, but in a respectable state of repair. Beyond that, there was no furniture save a bookshelf and a lamp-stand. Whoever had designed the space knew their acoustics- the echoes were incredible. There wasn't even so much as a tapestry on the walls, though there _was _a fireplace in the bedroom. Evidently no one had inhabited these rooms in a while- maintained, yes, there wasn't much sign of dust, but inhabited? No.

Well, he could live with that.

Not like he had much of a choice.

He sat down on the bed, took off his coat and pried off his shoes. What was left. . . Find Blodgett. Figure out where the bathrooms were. Find out where they fed the professors. Get his books and things back from Hagrid. Find the library and see what it was like - yeah, there was plenty left to do today. Blodgett first, for preference, and then lunch. The rest would just have to wait.


	7. MeaningOfThingsAsTheyAppearToTheOthers

****

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

****

**WARNING:** This chapter contains a terrorist incident. I intend neither disrespect of such real-world tragedies nor any cheapening of the loss of life suffered therein by it.

* * *

****

Notes From The Field

Less than a week left before the term starts. This is about as far from what we did with Tim Hunter as it's possible to _get. _Somehow I don't think that nut job E was the sort to do lesson plans and assign essays. _I'm _not even the sort to do that, but I'm stuck with it unless I find something in the library first that'll get me home. I don't think I've ever seen so many grimoires just sitting there for anyone to come along and read. Librarian's a bit of a vulture on legs but Blodgett says Pince nothing to fear as long as you stick to the rules & don't do the books harm. Don't think she trusts me. Smart woman.

Have met nearly all the other teachers so far. D'dore probably oldest of the bunch except for Binns, who is actually _dead. _Binns=ghost, teaches History of Magic. Has power to make brain shut down, eyes glaze over, etc. Met Flitwick and Snape already, of course. Would make my life easier if Flitwick would leave me alone for _one bloody day _as the little bugger keeps tracking me down to exchange notes on that ill-luck bolt I threw, my world's magic vs. his, etc. EVERY. BLOODY. DAY. Better him than Trelawney, though. T. = one of two Divination teachers. Got all the actual divinatory talent of your average earthworm. Madame Xanadu could do better blindfolded with a casino deck missing the sevens. _Has _done, come to think of it. Dunno where the other Divination teacher is. Blodgett says he's a centaur. Must live in the Forest or something, castle doesn't strike me as a very good place for someone with hooves. If he's anything like traditional he probably teaches along with Sinistra. It's that or he's working with Sprout, since she does herbology and it's either stars or psychoactive fumes for your standard centaur oracularities.

Been too busy to meet the rest, or they've been too busy to meet me. I'll live.

* * *

The morning mail arrived, as usual, before Constantine was even halfway through with his breakfast; and as usual, the owls made a special point of aiming John's letters directly at his head. He'd about given up on teaching them not to do that. No one seemed to think setting fire to the damn birds' tails was a good idea.

"No Howlers this morning?" asked Blodgett in an amused tone. The grey-haired, beardless wizard was seated across the table from John, as he had been for the past few weeks. "You must be slipping."

John grunted, examining the envelopes the birds had left. Two from names he didn't recognise. "Not my fault if people can't put together a decent alibi to save their lives."

"Yes, John, but you're actively exploding those alibis, bad as they are. People are bound to resent that."

"Look," said John, scanning the first letter and setting it aside, "I'm doing 'em a favour. If they're too embarrassed to tell their mates they're watching _Coronation Street _on the Muggle television next door, but they're not fast enough to hide the binoculars, they _deserve _to get caught."

Blodgett nodded. "That's as may be, but still. You're going to upset someone if you keep this up."

John set aside the letter (a request for a meeting somewhere more palatable than the Head) and reached for the next one. "Thought I already did."

"I mean someone who'll do more than send Howlers."

"Feh. I'm getting out of the business anyway. Dumbledore doesn't want me odd-jobbing during term." He wrinkled his nose at the letter- same request as the last one - and picked up the final envelope. At the sight of the crossed needle-and-wand stamp on the back, he smiled.

Blodgett leaned forward a little, peering over his mess of scrambled eggs to get a look at the envelope in John's hand. "What've you got there?"

He held the letter up for Blodgett to see. "It's from Gladrags," he said. "They've finished my order."

"Oh, good. Planning on keeping the Muggle clothes?"

"I'm not wearing _robes _on the trip home, Caleb. There's not enough gold in Gringotts."

The robes were done, yes, but they still had to be paid for. The witch at the shop had a half on order, half on delivery policy for bespoke tailoring. John's money was in his rooms, so when the meal was done he excused himself and headed back up to the fifth floor. He was starting to get used to the shifting floor-plan, and the portraits along the way had stopped doing more than calling out the occasional greeting. The ghosts who turned up along the way just nodded politely or murmured a 'hello, Professor' before going about their business. All very easy, all very simple.

And just like every scene in every movie where some idiot said it was 'quiet- _too _quiet'. _How _long had he been here? No disasters, no nameless horrors, not even a proper enemy- oh, sure, there was Snape, but he hadn't seen the man since the duel. Unless Snape was hatching some sinister scheme, which John doubted, that didn't count. No, so far as John could tell this world had no idea of his presence, and so lacked the ingrained resentment that his own seemed to harbour towards him. It was _long _past time for the hammer to fall.

He dismissed the thought as he arrived at the door to his quarters. Dumbledore hadn't said anything about smoking in his own rooms, and none of the ghosts had even tried to pass his wards. Conjured fags were almost as nasty as transmuted ones, but-

On the other side of the door, something made a scuffling noise.

John froze. Silently, he drew his wand. _"Alohomora," _he murmured, and the lock clicked under his hand. He counted to himself- three, two, one- and shoved the door open, lunging inside with wand at the ready.

Had there been anyone else about he might have been embarrassed, but the room was as empty as when he'd left it. At least, it looked that way. He knew better than that; after a quick scan of his immediate surroundings he flattened himself against one wall and went silent, straining his ears for any hint of noise.

For a few moments, there was nothing. Just as he was starting to curse under his breath, though, there was a faint _plep. _Something soft, maybe, against the floor? And there, another one, and another. They sounded like the footfalls of something very small. . . .yes, definitely footfalls. Whatever it was had decided to go about its business. Which would've been fine with John, if that business hadn't taken the whatever-it-was into his sodding _bedroom._

He took a long breath, running over several spells in his mind. If it had got this far inside the school, it was either extremely powerful or extremely lucky. Probably both. Whether it was native to this place or had followed him from home he didn't know, but he wasn't going to take chances.

A quick glance around the corner revealed nothing; the door to his bedroom was ajar, but he didn't have a line of sight on the creature. Bugger. He crept up towards the door, still listening; it didn't seem to have heard him. In fact, unless he was very much mistaken, it was humming to itself.

Even as he thought that, the humming went silent. He raised his wand-

It tapped him on the back of one thigh.

__

_"Gyaaaah!" _He whirled about on one heel and came knee-to-face with a pathetic, cowering creature. It had huge, protruding ears and wore wrinkled, stained clothing; that was all he could see of it, as it was huddling in a ball with both arms frantically protecting its face.

"Winky is sorry! Winky did not finish cleaning Professor's rooms in time!" squeaked a tiny, terrified voice from somewhere inside the ball.

"What the _fuck _is a Winky and _why _is it in my rooms to begin with?" he barked, keeping the wand trained on the thing. What little he could see of it looked entirely too much like an imp for his liking.

It moved one arm a little, and a huge, watery brown eye blinked up at him fearfully. "Winky is a house-elf, sir," it said in a trembling voice. "Winky has been cleaning Professor's rooms since before Professor came to Hogwarts."

John lowered his wand, staring at the creature. "You," he said slowly. _"You're _an elf?"

It nodded cautiously.

"Bloody hell."

"Winky is sorry," said the creature, lowering its arms. The saucer-sized eyes were matched by an equally outsized nose, the grayish skin of which was blotched and reddened like a bad tomato. It ducked its head submissively as it said, "Winky has been working with other house-elves on Professor's rooms, but she did not have help today."

"Others? You mean _more of you _have been traipsing through my rooms while I was out?"

It- she- gulped, nodding and hunching her shoulders unhappily.

"Quit that," John snapped, scowling. "How long have you been invading, anyway?"

"Winky hasn't invaded, Professor," the house-elf said weakly. She tried to straighten up, but after one look at John, she was cringing again. "House-elves does _all _the cleaning at Hogwarts. Winky was ordered to keep Professor's rooms because no one has been here-"

__

_"I've _been here!"

"Winky is sorry," the house-elf said, gulping.

"Did it occur to you to mention something when I moved in? Or to ask permission to go through my things?"

"Winky has only been cleaning! Professor's things are Professor's, and not to be touched! Dobby has said so!"

"Dobby? Who's that, another elf?" She nodded. "Good on him for that much, at least- but that's not the point!"

"Winky thought professors all knew." The creature hunched her shoulders so hard she gave the impression of trying to pull her head in, like a turtle. "Winky should not have presumed, she should have asked-"

"Damn right you should've," John muttered.

Winky nodded. "So Winky must punish herself," she concluded. She immediately turned and started pounding her head against the nearest wall. "Bad Winky! Bad!"

John stared at the house-elf's display, his conjured cigarette forgotten. This? _This _was an elf? Bloody hell, if he could videotape it he'd have blackmail on every sodding member of the race of Faerie from now until the end of time. Titania would-

Winky paused, turning to glance up at John. "Professor is not going to try to stop Winky?" she asked worriedly.

"No," said John slowly. "No, I don't- you said 'must'?"

Winky nodded. "House-elves who disobeys their masters' will must punish themselves," she said.

"And I count as 'master', do I?"

"Winky had another Master once, but he gave Winky clothes," she said, plucking at her pathetically dirty dress. "So Winky had to come to Hogwarts with Dobby. All Professors are Master now."

John considered that. Masters dismissing bound servants with clothes, eh? Bit fairy-tale for his liking, but if that was a real banishment then it was probably some inborn thing. Probably meant the punishment was, too. He'd have to read up on that later. "Get it over with," he finally said. "I'm not going to stop you."

Winky nodded. In a grateful, almost respectful tone of voice, she said, "Master is of the old school." Then she resumed pounding her head against the wall.

Since the house-elf seemed to know what she was doing, John headed into his bedroom and did a quick scan of the place. Looked like the elf was telling the truth- his stuff was untouched, except by the removal of dust. Not that he exactly had much stuff to begin with, but it was the principle of the thing. His stack of books had been shifted a little to one side, but none of them had been disturbed, and his coat hung from the same peg he'd left it on that morning. Most importantly, his money was untouched, safely stashed in a black box that had once housed a bottle of Mad Jack Vozza's Finest Firewhiskey. He prodded the bed experimentally- nothing untoward there. Remembering at last that he'd been about to light up before all the mess began, he took out his wand and set off the world's smallest _Incendio._

He was about halfway through the fag when the thumping noises from the next room stopped. With a sigh he got up; Winky had stepped away from the wall and was rubbing dizzily at her head. "Learned our lesson, have we?" he asked her sternly.

"Winky apologises," she said unsteadily. "Winky will not upset Master again."

"Good." He leaned back against the wall, looking down at the penitent creature. "Here's the deal, Winky. I've got too many things to do to be bothered with tidying up after myself. Promise me you won't fiddle with my stuff, turn up while I'm in here, or go into any of my drawers once I get a proper writing-desk, and you can keep cleaning these rooms. I won't go leaving any elf-sized clothes out, or shoes, or- or whatever it is that's a dismissal token for you lot."

Winky's head bobbed up and down in an enthusiastic nod. She smiled, the wobbly expression curling almost from ear to ear.

"I'm not that familiar with house-elves, though," John went on, tapping off a bit of ash. "Anything else I should know? Am I supposed to be feeding you?"

"House-elves is fed in the kitchens," Winky said. A bit shamefacedly, Winky added, "Though the other house-elves doesn't care to eat with Winky much. Dobby usually brings Winky food instead."

He decided not to ask. "All right. I don't have to feed you, I don't have to clothe you- I can live with that. As long as you don't show up when I'm around, or hang about so that you're still here when I arrive. You do your work, I do mine, and I'll let you know when you've done something wrong- fair?"

"Master is more than fair," murmured Winky, wringing anxiously at the hem of her stained garment. "More than Winky deserves."

"Just do what you're told and we'll get on fine."

"Yes, Master. Winky will do."

"And quit cringing like that, dammit!"

It was a grey, drizzly, foggy day outside, and the turf squelched under John's feet as he made for Hogsmeade. Not for the first time, he found himself considering getting a broom. If he had to make this trip with any kind of regularity- but no. No, even if he figured out a way to keep up the Muggle information racket once classes started, he _still _wasn't going to get on one of those bloody things again.

He paused at the lake's edge, facing the water. "All right," he said, "let's see what you've got."

The water, which had up to that point been stirred only by the wind, began to bubble and roil. As the furious frothing spread to every corner of the lake, the center of the water swelled alarmingly, shedding foam and weed left and right. The glassy greenish-black swell broke in a phenomenal surge of flying arms and suckers and tentacles that reared up against the sky before crashing down to the surface, scattering droplets everywhere. The tentacles reared up again, making snatching motions at the clouds, before finally smashing to a halt just shy of where John stood.

He grinned. "Now _that," _he said, "is a _lot _more like it. Nice job, you."

One of the tentacles lifted from the water and waved cheerfully before the squid dove back into the lake's depths.

His spirits considerably lifted by the giant squid's performance, John made the rest of the trip to Hogsmeade in record time. There were a few owls here and there, dropping off late bits of post; as for people, there weren't a lot of folk about. He nodded to a few of them, but for the most part they ignored him, and he ignored them right back. Dumbledore had been pretty firm about the side jobs, and he wanted to get those signs down before term started. He didn't need the Muggle explanation business any more, anyway. Between the school salary and his accumulated pile of Sickles, he figured he'd be able to get in a wager or two if he needed anything extra.

As he was pulling down the last placard from the wall to which he'd pasted it, a flash of red caught his eye. He leaned over to have a better look- yes, he was right. Skinny, pale, red hair, old robes, and hurrying towards the Hog's Head. "Oi! Ginger!"

The other wizard stopped abruptly, glancing uncertainly in John's direction. Then he smiled- or beamed, rather; John had never known the redheaded fellow to be anything but enthusiastic in his presence. It was a little weird. "Ah, there you are, John!" he said, veering from his course. "Excellent, excellent, I was just on my way to see you."

"Yeah?" John pulled the last scrap of paper from the wall and debated scouring away the torn bits that remained. Aaah, not like anyone would notice. "What've you got this time?"

"Not sure, really, but it runs on batteries. About-" The man's face screwed up in concentration. "This long?" he hazarded, indicating an object some nine or ten inches long. "Blue, squishy to the touch. Shaped a bit like a wand, but a good deal thicker, and bulgy at the end that hasn't got batteries in. Got a switch towards the bottom, says 'off, low, medium, high'."

John whistled. It was easier than trying to keep a straight face. "All right," he said. "I . . . think I can tell you what that is."

"Really? Just like that?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty sure. They're dead common- only I'm not going to talk about it here." He nodded towards a couple of older witches, who were staring at his Muggle clothes with a distinctly disapproving look. "Gimme a bit, will you? I've got to go pick up an order at Gladrags. I'll be along to the Head just after."

"Splendid." The redheaded fellow beamed. "I'll be waiting for you, then."

John shook his head as 'Ginger' walked off. He wasn't sure _where _the bloke came up with his Muggle items, and at this point he didn't especially want to know. He'd had the impression that most of what the man brought to the Hog's Head had been retrieved from rubbish tips, or something. He just hoped this particular find had been soaked a few hours in the wizard equivalent of Lysol, because _he _sure as hell wasn't going to trust _Scourgify _to get it clean enough to handle.

Fortunately, Gladrags was on the next street over. He ducked yet another late-coming owl bound in the opposite direction- they seemed to positively enjoy making him duck- and made for the shop at double speed. The invisible bell over the door tinkled as he entered. "Hullo?" he called.

A middle-aged, mousy-haired witch- Maggie Mumby, the current proprietor- poked her head out from the back of the shop. "Right here, ducks- oh, it's you, Mr. Constantine. Come to pick up your order, have you?"

"Y'know, I'm not really sure of that," John answered with a smile. "Starting to think I'll miss having everyone over the age of forty-five look at me as if I were here to pillage their women and burn their sheep."

Maggie laughed. "Of course, of course. Just a moment, Mr. Constantine." She pulled away for a moment, emerging a little later with a bundle of cloth draped over her arm. "Here you are. Sorry they took so long, but it's not exactly a normal design for robes, is it?"

"I should hope not," John muttered, shrugging off his coat. "I've _seen _what some of the people up at the school wear."

"Different generations, different tastes." Maggie smiled as John ducked into the shop's changing-room. "Most of them buy at Madam Malkin's, anyway. She's a bit. . . how do I put this? Old-fashioned."

Given the amount of explaining he'd had to do to get this damn set of robes to look like they belonged somewhere other than the back row of the House of Lords, John thought that comment a little much- but he said nothing. He'd _seen _Maggie using _Accio _to summon straight-pins during a fitting, and he hadn't paid her yet.

"Almost done in there?"

"Just about." He tugged at the belt a few times, then nodded. That would do.

"Come on, then, let's see how they look on you!"

The answer, much though he hated to admit it, was 'really not bad'. Maggie had flat-out refused to do a one-for-one copy of his coat, but she'd come close enough in the outer robe's design that he felt pretty sure he wouldn't have to turn in his Trenchcoat Brigade membership card after all. True, the fabric was a lot lighter and looser, and probably wasn't waterproof. But she'd got the colour right, and it hung like a proper coat, not like some priest's skirt or something. "There's a hood," she noted, looking him over with a critical eye and making a few adjustments here and there. "Rolled into the collar. If you just touch it _here _you can pull it out."

"I didn't ask for that, did I?"

"No," said Maggie, stepping back to get an overall look, "but you said you wanted something dramatic, didn't you? Pull up the hood and change the colour, some nice crimson or black or something like that, and you'll get all the drama you could possibly want."

John laughed. "Have I told you lately that I like the way you think?"

"You're just saying that." But she was smiling as she said it. "Now, about the second half of the price."

"Ah, right." He dipped into one of the inner pockets, next to the one she'd sewn in to fit his wand. "How much do I owe you?"

Lips pursing a bit in concentration, Maggie produced a sheet of paper and started to run her finger down it. "Let's see, now, that was half down, so-"

A tremendous **_BRRRABOOOM! _**thundered through the shop, shaking the walls and rattling the door on its hinges. "What was _that?" _Maggie cried- but John was already halfway out the door. He knew that sound, oh, God, he knew that sound. . .

The damp, soggy cross-street was full of smoke, billowing outward from the direction John had come. There were flecks of ash and dust roiling in the mess- feathers, too, sinking and spinning slowly under the weight of the ongoing drizzle. People were pouring out of businesses, staring and pointing and calling out to one another. None of it mattered, he expected all of that, it was _natural _for people to do that. Where was the-

Oh. Yes. There.

The smell.

It was a weird, burning reek, riding on the grey wind unhindered by the rain. A dreadful chill had seized his stomach at the sound of the explosion; he'd been hoping, wordlessly hoping, that it was only the wizarding equivalent of a gas cooker gone wrong. But it wasn't- not with a smell like that, oh, no. It had the horrible tang of air-bags and synthetics, of accelerant-fueled fires: a sharp, stabbing odour that never happened by accident. What it was, exactly, he couldn't say. He didn't need to. He _knew._

"It's a bomb," he said to Maggie, who had come up behind him to see. God, his mouth was so _dry. _"Someone's set off a bomb."

She shook her head wordlessly, starting forward towards the smoke. He grabbed at her shoulder. "Don't."

"But someone could be _in _there! What if-"

"Go ring the police, Maggie." His eyes were still on the cloud, trying to make out the source of it all. "Tell them what's happened."

"Police?" she asked, sounding baffled.

John stared down at her suddenly ashen face. "Don't tell me you haven't got police!"

The crowd had begun to gather about them, no one quite willing to enter the smoke zone. Maggie swallowed. "Well- there's Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry-"

"Get them, then! But don't you go in there!" He looked up at the ring of people surrounding them. "Nor any of you, either! Like as not whoever planted that one's got another set to go off when the help arrives-"

"It's _his _doing," said someone in the crowd, too low to locate but just loud enough to be heard. "It's _got _to be."

A general murmur of assent ran around the gathered people. John found his hand going to his wand pocket. "You think _I-"_

"Not you," said Maggie, licking her lips. "You-Know-Who."

The murmur was louder this time. Most of the people gathered started nodding. No one said the name, no one was willing to do that- but John remembered the conversations with Hagrid well enough, and the other professors talked of such things at meals. _Voldemort. _"That's what he does?" he asked of the first person he saw, a blonde, round-faced fellow with horn-rimmed spectacles. "Lies low months at a time, then blows up-"

He was going to say, "random targets," but the words died in his throat. The wind had lifted just enough for him to catch sight of a blackened bit of wood that had once been a sign, bearing a still-recognisable hog's head. And overlaid on the explosive reek was another, far more dreadful stench: a smell very much like that of meat on a grill . . .

__

_Ginger- _the word flashed through his mind. _Shit!_

Forgetting everything he'd just said, he turned away from the startled wizard and bolted through the crowd. Sure enough, the smoke (blacker and heavier now, and tinged with the odours of scorched wood and liquor) was pouring out of the place where the grubby bar had once stood. There was still a roof, at least- part of one, anyway, and what remained was on fire. The windows had fountained outwards, painting the street with radiating stripes of black and grey. As he weighed whether or not to cross the threshold, someone touched at his elbow- Maggie again.

"I've called the Aurors," she said softly. "Mr. Constantine, I- are you- all right?"

He exhaled, long and low. Looking at the remains of the door-frame, he said, "I was supposed to meet someone in there. Right as soon as I got done with you."

"I don't-" She faltered. "I don't think you'll be meeting anyone today."


	8. All My Scars Are On The Inside

****

**DISCLAIMER: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

John Constantine sat in a back room somewhere- he didn't know where, he hadn't paid attention- and stared unseeing at the floor. He could still hear the noise. The horribly familiar booming sound kept playing and replaying itself in his head. There was Ginger's voice, describing the silly thing he needed identified- he kept hearing that, too. It kept rising up in his head and twining with the smell, kicking loose memories he'd spent long years burying. Ritchie Simpson, mostly, his mind hooked into his computer and flying on wings of quantum magic while his body scorched into charcoal-

A dull, heavy _clunk _ripped his attention back to the here-and-now; he lifted his head. The door opened, admitting a figure that would've held John's attention far better under other circumstances. As it was, the man rated only a glance: a tall, heavily scarred man with iron-grey hair and a broken nose. John murmured a greeting and dropped his head again.

"Wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you," growled the man's voice. "I'm here from the Ministry."

"Wonderful," John muttered.

"Name's Moody." There was another _clunk, _and a dragging noise; the man was pulling up a chair.

Reluctantly, John raised his head once more. The overall impression of height and scarring remained, but- well- his _eye. . ._ One of the man's eyes was as bog-standard as they came, but the other was a brilliant blue that just didn't occur in nature. Without warning, it rotated away from John, even as the normal eye remained fixed on him. The damn thing kept darting glances to one side, then the other, then up, then down. That eye was enough to make a strong man queasy. The rest of Moody was easier to look at- not a broken nose but a gouged one, and enough scars across his face, neck, forearms, and hands to make John wonder how the man still had all ten fingers.

The blue eye abruptly swung back into line with the brown one. His patchy eyebrows rose expectantly.

"John Constantine."

Moody nodded. "Talked to Maggie Mumby before I got here," he said. "She tells me you seemed to know what was going on. Right down to that second explosion."

"Second- they set off another-" John couldn't speak for a moment. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt? You mean other than the ones the first bang left in little black heaps on the floor?" Moody smiled, an incredibly unpleasant expression given his lopsided, scarred features. "You seem to know a bit much about these things, Constantine."

John passed a hand over his face, restraining the urge to snarl at the man. "Look," he said, feeling if anything even more drained than before, "if you're thinking it was me-"

"Oo, he's a smart one, isn't he? As a matter of fact, that's almost _exactly _what I'm thinking."

John shook his head, slumping in his chair. "I don't believe this. All I said was not to go near because there might've been another charge set."

"Went running up yourself, though, according to Mumby. Sounds like something a man who knows how much time he's got before the next explosion would do, if you ask me."

"I was looking for someone," John said weakly. "I knew he'd gone in. . ."

"Yeah?" Moody leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Who was it?"

"I don't know his name."

Moody might've quirked an eyebrow, but it was hard to tell on a face like that.

John swallowed, forcing himself to speak evenly. "Red hair. Old robes. Didn't come from around here. I ran into him before I got to Gladrags this morning, and he said he'd meet me at the Head."

"Mmm." Moody rose from his chair. "I know about _him, _all right. Been meeting with you for a few weeks now, hasn't he?"

John nodded, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. There were a few lingering traces of burning smell still in the air, even here.

Moody's eyes- both of them- narrowed. "And you have no idea who he was?"

"I told you. I didn't get his name." The scarred man was starting to rub John up the wrong way.

"A man turns up to see you every other night for the better part of a month and you expect me to believe you don't know who he is?" That weird blue eye stared at him even as Moody rolled the other one.

"Wasn't my business," John retorted. "People come in, they ask their questions, they give me their money, I answer their questions, they leave."

"So you just _happened _to be answering questions regularly for that particular man, is that it?"

"Yes." John sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "As a matter of fact that _is _it. I couldn't tell you his name, because I don't know it, and I couldn't tell you what he does for a living, because I don't know." He coughed. "Was a bloody good customer, I know _that _much."

"'Was' is right." Moody stumped over to the door, leaning out of the room briefly to murmur to someone. "That little package of yours-"

"It wasn't mine, dammit!" snapped John. "I had nothing to do with this!"

"-destroyed one of the oldest buildings in Hogsmeade and took out four people," continued Moody, as if John had never spoken. "That's the interesting part. The Head hardly ever has customers much before noon. Apart from your red-headed friend, the only people on the premises were the barman and a couple of witches who'd taken rooms over the bar. Nice timing, eh?"

John suppressed another cough, scowling at Moody, who didn't seem to notice.

"And then there's the little matter of the second explosion. . ." There was a rap at the door. "Don't try anything," Moody warned. "This whole place is under an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. I've got my eye on you, Constantine."

The scarred fellow stepped out with a series of clunks, and the door slammed shut behind him. John slouched again, the hollow feeling in his stomach mingling now with an urge to crack Moody over the head with something heavy. He expected this kind of thing from interrogators back home, but he had a _record _there. Moody didn't know him from Adam. . . Hell, if Moody knew anything at all about John, he'd know better than to accuse him of _thiis _kind of shit.

A random thought crossed his mind: he was nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds. Silently grateful for small favours, he reached into one of his pockets- damn. No fags. It'd been too long since he conjured them up. A few moments' more searching revealed that his wand was nowhere to be found, either. Someone must've taken it from him on the way here- yeah, he remembered being asked to leave it up front until the questioning was done. He probably should've been angry about that, but he didn't feel up to the task of yet _another _emotion. Frankly, it was easier to get mad about the smokes right now. He'd worry about the wand later.

God, he could still smell the burning. Even _taste _it, across the back of his tongue. . .

The door swung open again. It was Moody, but this time the scarred man bore a roll of parchment and a long red quill. "Procedure," he growled, sounding disgusted. "Since I'm not officially on the lists at the moment, they want me recording everything I ask you, along with everything you say." He set the implements aside and conjured up a small writing-desk. Shaking his head, he added, "If you've got to nip out to the khazi, now's the time."

John shook his head. "No- but who d'you have to blow to get a drink around here?"

Moody stared at him for a moment, then let out a sound that might've been a laugh, or might've been a bark of disapproval. "Not going to answer that," he said, "but here." From under his robes he produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top, took a long pull from it, and wiped its mouth on his sleeve before handing it over.

John sniffed the contents before eyeing Moody dubiously. "This is fruit juice."

"Pumpkin, yeah."

"You carry _pumpkin juice _in a flask?"

"It's not noon yet."

"Why did you _bother?_"

"I don't trust anyone to handle my drink except me. Ever. Did you want that or not?"

Feeling distinctly cheated, but wanting to get the vile, ashy taste out of his mouth, John nodded and drank. It helped- a little. "Still weird, if you ask me," he muttered as he handed it back.

"Get your own, then." Moody laid out the parchment on the desk, and the quill leaped into position at the top of the page. A number of small, heavy objects were produced from Moody's pockets to weight down the ends of the curling parchment; the blue eye never once drifted from its watch on John. "That's as good as it'll get around here. . . ready to talk?"

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

Moody shook his head. "No," he replied, "you don't. Now, to start at the beginning. . . name?"

With a sigh, John answered. "John Constantine." The quill started scritching away of its own accord.

"Date of birth?"

__

_What d'you want to know that for? _John wondered- but what came out was, "Fifth of October, nineteen-fifty-three."

Moody grunted. "Occupation?"

"Right now? Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."

The quill paused for a second; Moody looked up. "You're joking," he said gruffly. "You?"

"I owe Dumbledore," John said, slouching further in his seat.

For a moment Moody looked as if he wanted to ask more, but he shook his head and looked over at the parchment. "Not important right now-"

"Good."

Moody ignored that. "Tell me what you were doing in Hogsmeade today," he said. "To start with."

"To start with," John said sourly, "I wanted to get my robes from Gladrags Wizardwear. And then I wanted to tear down all the notices I'd put up about being a Muggle expert. That was it."

Both Moody's eyes rolled at that. "Right. And I suppose I'm to believe your meeting with Arthur Weasley was a coincidence?"

John raised an eyebrow. He'd be damned if he let a question as idiotic as 'who?' pass his lips.

"Answer the question, Constantine."

Reluctantly, John nodded. "He found me as I was taking down a notice, and said he'd meet me in the Hog's Head when I was done with Maggie. I bloody well didn't have an appointment with him. So, yes, coincidence."

"Mmmm. Bit of a thin excuse if you ask _me. . . _" Moody leaned over to look at the parchment again. "How long had you been meeting with him before this?"

"Couple of weeks. He had a lot of questions, and his money was as good as anyone else's." A thought occurred to John; before he could stop himself, it tumbled out. "Here, _he's _not a suspect, is he?"

Both Moody's eyes went wide at that. "Weasley? Working for You-Know-Who? Don't make me laugh." The scarred face suddenly twisted with some odd expression, and he leaned forward. "Or are you trying to throw suspicion off yourself, I wonder?"

"A little," John admitted, "but only because you haven't said anything about him, and you've asked a hell of a lot of questions. The way _I _see it, if he were an innocent, you'd be using every trick in the book to get me feeling guilty so I'd talk."

"I'd have to think you _could _feel guilty first."

"Oh, I can," John said quietly. "More than you could ever imagine."

Moody was silent for quite a while after that. At last, he said, "No. Weasley's no suspect. Far as we can tell, he was the target."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The other man nodded. "Know anything about him?"

"Only that he had a bloody huge supply of Muggle devices he wanted explained. What happened to him?"

"He'll live," Moody said gruffly, and a wave of relief washed over John. "Barely. Thought he was as dead as the rest when we found him- looked like something you'd fish out of a November bonfire- but they got him to St. Mungo's in time. He's in a burn tank. Hasn't got enough skin left to touch anything but liquids."

Ritchie Simpson, indeed. John closed his eyes, forcing the memory down with all his might.

"Far as we can tell, the explosive package arrived by owl-"

"Feathers," murmured John.

"What?"

"There were feathers in the smoke this morning. I thought it was pigeons, but-"

Moody shook his head. "Post Owl," he said. "Weasley seems to've received the package, then thrown it across the room- found him under a table in the back, but the worst of the damage was up by the bar proper. Why he didn't just Vanish it I don't know." He cocked an eye at John. "You?"

John shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "He never did anything much in the way of magic during our meetings."

"About that." Moody leaned forward, leaving the quill to its own devices. "Did you ever see him, or have any contact with him, outside of the explanation business?"

"No. Never," John said. "Except for today, I'd never so much as seen him outside the Hog's Head."

"Who sent the explosive package to the Hog's Head, Constantine?" Moody asked without so much as a change of expression.

"Don't know," John answered promptly. "Wasn't me."

"Who gave the order to have it sent, then? Whose idea was it?"

"Again," John said, "I don't know. But it wasn't me."

"How'd you know about the second explosion?"

"I didn't. It's a common terrorist tactic, back home."

"Ah? Where's home, then?"

"London," John said. "Different London from yours, though. Mine's two or three worlds away. Maybe more."

Moody stared at him.

"D'you want the address?" John continued recklessly. "Only it doesn't exist here. I already checked."

"'Two or three worlds away'?" echoed Moody. "Are you _mad, _Constantine?"

"Not at the moment."

Moody pinched the bridge of his ill-used nose with two fingers, and sighed.

"Talk to Dumbledore if you want," John suggested. "He's been in my head- he believes me."

"He _what?" _Moody dropped his hand.

"Oh, yes." John grinned. "Wave the wand and smile and say '_legilimens' _and go rooting through the stranger's head to corroborate his story- he did the whole thing, right before he offered to hire me-"

"Well, _that's _a first," Moody muttered. "Been telling him he needs to be more careful with his hires. . . I'll be talking to him about that, don't think I won't."

"Go ahead," said John. "It's not like I can stop you."

"That's true," Moody mused. "Which reminds me, actually. There's someone else who wants to speak to you about what happened today." He glanced over to the door. "Come on in, Snape."

Fighting back the urge to groan as the Potions Master stalked into the room, John turned to Moody instead. "Here, I thought you were doing this for the Ministry! What's _he _doing here?"

"Seeing, Mr. Constantine, to the best interests of Hogwarts," Snape said with a faint arch of his eyebrows. "After the events of the past year the Ministry has been forced to concede that governance of the School is best left in the hands of the Headmaster and his chosen representatives."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Everything." Moody stood away from the writing desk; Snape settled into the chair instead, his black robes billowing about him. "You are a loose cannon, Mr. Constantine, a dangerous element. The most rudimentary of investigations revealed to me that there is no record of your prior existence anywhere in the annals of wizarding Britain-"

"Dumbledore _knows _that," John said wearily. "That's why he-"

"Attempted Legilimency on the mind of a man who not only practiced Occlumency, but who did so well enough to hold him off for a full minute?"

"Occluwhat?"

Snape glared at John, dark eyes narrowing sharply. "Do _not _play the fool with me, Mr. Constantine. You won't get a second chance, I assure you."

"But I don't-" John started to say, _I don't know what this 'occlumency' of yours is, _but stopped himself. It was phenomenally difficult to choke the words back, for some reason. "Fine," he managed instead. "Think what you like. I don't care."

"No? I suppose you don't." The quill, which had paused in its scratching while Moody fetched another chair, rose again and hastily resumed scribbling. "But some of us do," Snape continued softly.

"Good for you, then. I'm not talkin'."

Another man might have laughed. Snape only smiled, a thin, unpleasant expression, and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Oh," he said, "I rather think you will. . ."

His posture changed fractionally, no more than a slight inclination of his head in Moody's direction. From the folds of his sleeve, the scarred man produced what looked like a gleaming eyedropper.

John's stomach knotted at the sight; if his mouth had felt dry before, it was nothing compared to this. "The juice," he began, but the rest of the words didn't want to come out. At last, he managed, "Poison?"

Snape sniffed. "Hardly," he said. "The vast majority are completely unsuitable for interrogation purposes. Believe me, Mr. Constantine: had I wanted you dead, you would be so already."

There was no room for relief in John's head, only a dull, burning sort of rage that grew as Snape continued to speak. "I suspect Dumbledore saw in your thoughts precisely what you wanted him to see. I do not intend to make his mistake. What I want from you now is _answers- _truthful ones- and I _will _have them. The Veritaserum you were given was of my own manufacture, brewed to the most precise standards wizard-kind can achieve. A mere three drops in a single cupful of other liquid would be enough to have the drinker not only incapable of lying, but unable to resist revealing anything I cared to ask him about."

"Oh, fucking _wonderful," _John muttered. _Wonder if this is what the First felt like, after that holy water I got him to drink. . ._

"Indeed," said Snape. The look on the Potions Master's face was the most disgustingly smug expression John could remember seeing on anyone human, outside of the occasional mirror. "Shall we begin?"

Wearily, John flipped Snape off.

"I shall take that as a yes." Snape's lips twitched in a flat, humourless smile. "Who are you _really, _Mr. Constantine?"

"Uh, Snape-" That was Moody. John didn't listen to the ensuing words; he was considering his situation. On the one hand he had a stomach full of truth serum, a government investigator who wasn't on the official roster (_and _who had no qualms about dosing his subject without telling him), and a first-class dueller who had every reason to hate him. On the other, he had- what? Not much; for once in his life he wasn't responsible for the disaster. Didn't have a wand, true, but he'd never had a wand before. Didn't have any allies to call on, but _that _wasn't new either. No access to magic and no one to fall back on. . . but-

Snape knew other ways of getting a man to talk. Everything John had ever heard at Hogwarts pointed that way. But he'd chosen the truth potion instead- his own manufacture, he'd said. That pointed to an awful lot of confidence in his own skill. And he was barely a hairsbreadth away from gloating. Men like that. . . oh, John knew men like that, all right. They _hated _it when they heard things they didn't want to hear, even when they were hearing the truth. It meant they made mistakes- big ones.

"What on Earth are you smiling about?" demanded Snape, who had finished his argument with Moody.

"Just thinking about the truth," John answered, leaning back in his chair.

With the right words, John knew, he could talk a man into just about anything. And he didn't even have to lie to do it, if he played his cards right.

Snape nodded, though his expression remained suspicious. "Very well," he said. "Then answer my question of earlier-" His gaze shot briefly in Moody's direction. "-_despite _any duplication of effort it may represent. Who are you _really?"_

Still smiling, John stretched both his arms upwards, then brought them down behind his head. "I'm John Constantine," he said, looking straight back at Snape. "And I'm the biggest bastard in the world."

Huh. So it was still true, even here?

He was just about to add, _I'm also the most hated man on Earth, _when Snape spoke up. "In your estimation, perhaps. _Do _try to keep the hyperbole to a minimum, Mr. Constantine. I am not interested in what you think of yourself."

"Oh, no, no, see, I've been _told _this." John grinned, but his mind was racing- 'what you think of yourself', eh? That meant it could only compel the truth _as he knew it_, not absolute truth. "By lots of people. Ask anyone who's ever known me, they'll tell you-"

"That's as may be," Snape interrupted, "but I find it irrelevant to the situation at hand. Back to the questions, Mr. Constantine; what are you doing here?"

"Answering your questions," said John, "and his." He nodded at Moody. It was a little like being drunk, and a lot like being under the influence of something stronger. It took a concerted effort of will to stop the words _And annoying the living hell out of you _from spilling out of their own accord.

"Beyond that." Snape's expression, if anything, grew grimmer. "Who sent you here?"

"Well, no one so much _sent _me as they _led _me-"

"I mean to Hogsmeade."

"Oh, that? I walked here on my own. Had to pick up my-"

"I mean to the area of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts School in general!"

It might've been just John's imagination, but he thought he could see one little blue vein starting to throb at the Potions Master's temple. Moody, for his part, was starting to look extremely frustrated; his eyes kept darting over towards Snape, and he'd folded his arms across his chest. John shrugged. "That'd be Hagrid," he said. "The grounds-keeper? You know? I ran into him in London-"

"I see," said Snape. "And what were you doing in London, hmm?"

"Trying to find a place where I could smoke in peace, frankly," John said. "That, and trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me."

"What _had _happened to you?" interrupted Moody.

John shrugged. "I tried to break up a magical battle-" Snape leaned forward suddenly, expression interested. "-and came out the worse for it. Got thrown here by the backlash, more or less. The bloke I'd taken down blasted the hell out of me, and that's the last I saw before I landed in the street."

"Ah," said Snape softly, "now we are getting somewhere. A battle, you say? Between whom?"

"The names won't mean anything to you," John warned.

"I'll be the judge of that. Speak."

"Arf, arf," said John dryly, before resuming. "A kid by the name of Tim Hunter, and his extra-dimensional doppelganger."

Snape stared at John blankly; Moody got a thoughtful look, as of a man riffling through his memories.

"Told you the names wouldn't mean anything," John said.

"Extra-dimensional doppelganger?" said Snape slowly. "Do you _truly _expect me to believe that?"

"Dunno," said John. "You sure you got that potion mix right?"

Snape scowled; John knew he'd struck a nerve. Nevertheless, the sallow wizard nodded. "Quite," he said grimly. "Very well, Mr. Constantine. This 'Tim Hunter' of whom you speak. . . who is he?"

"Boy wizard. Former pupil of mine. Going to be the most powerful wizard of his generation, if he lives to adulthood. Doesn't seem to exist here, though. I already tried looking for him- can't even find his family, let alone Tim himself."

Moody shifted in his chair. Snape glanced at the still-writing quill. "I suppose you're going to tell me next that you, also, are someone's extra-dimensional doppelganger?"

"Fuck no," said John, and then paused. "Well- not unless you count the Golden Boy, but that's not the same thing."

"The what?"

"My twin brother. Stillborn, but I found this dimension once where he'd lived and I'd died-"

"This is getting ridiculous, Snape," growled Moody. "Can't you see what he's doing?"

Snape glared at Moody. "I believe I know when someone is buying himself time, thank you. It's happened more times in my classroom over the years than I care to count."

"Not that." Moody jerked his chin at John. "He's getting away from you. At this rate he'll be asking _you _the questions next."

"He's right," John noted, as quietly as the drug's compulsion would allow.

"_You _be quiet," snapped Snape. Turning to Moody, he asked, "What would you suggest instead, then?"

"Ask him exactly what you want to know. Nothing else." Moody gave John a long, hard look. "He'll take whatever you give him and run with it- don't let him. Not if you want your answers any time this month, anyway."

"Very well." Snape turned back to face John, dark eyes hardening. "I had hoped that given enough rope, you'd hang yourself, but apparently not. . ." As John drew breath to speak, Snape held up one hand. "Answer me this, instead. Are you in any way, shape, or form affiliated with the Dark Lord, Voldemort?"

"No."

Moody muttered something, but Snape ignored him. "Did you have anything to do with today's attempt on the life of Arthur Weasley?"

"N-" John stopped. There were words trying to come out that he didn't particularly want said.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Not to my knowledge," John said, grimacing. The compulsion was too strong to ignore. "People who know me. . . they don't always do so well. I tend to be what you'd call a bad-luck charm."

"Suited to your employment, then," Moody commented.

"Be _still, _Moody." Snape straightened in his seat. "What about the attempt ten minutes later on the life of Nymphadora Tonks, in London?"

Moody's blue eye snapped around towards Snape immediately- an unnerving sight, given that the rest of him was facing John.

John shook his head. "Until you mentioned it just now, I hadn't heard there _was _one."

"Neither had I," murmured Moody.

"There was," Snape confirmed. "An explosive package, sent by owl, in London. _She _had the presence of mind to Disapparate out of range of the explosion." He looked at Moody. "There was no Dark Mark afterwards."

"I had nothing to do with it," said John. "All right? I'm not interested in your Voldemort. Before I met Hagrid, I'd never heard of him. I'm not interested in your war, either, except as far as it affects the school."

An undefinable spark seemed to light in Snape's eyes. "Why _did _you come to the school, Mr. Constantine? What are your intentions, now that you are employed at Hogwarts?"

John heard Moody groan, but ignored it. "Intentions?" he said. "I want to go home. That's the extent of it. Dumbledore said if I taught for him for a year, he'd do everything he could to send me home. That's as close to an ulterior motive as you'll get. I didn't like school one bit back when I was in it, and I don't care for it much more now."

"Then-" Snape leaned forward, and his voice took on a more distinctly menacing quality. "What makes you think you will be anything but a millstone around the collective necks of your students? This is no casual course in easy studies, Mr. Constantine. Defense Against the Dark Arts is vital to the students' survival in the months and years to come. Our six upper classes have already lost a year's worth of time to a teacher who should never have held the position in the first place. Why should so diffident a scholar as yourself be permitted to endanger wizarding Britain's future any further?"

The words blazed up in John's head- denunciations, defenses, justifications, all of them true. It took him a moment before he could gather enough wit to speak clearly.

"I said I didn't like _school," _he answered at last. "I never said I didn't like _study. _We don't have public schools for magic where I come from; there aren't enough students, and it's too bloody dangerous anyway. Everything I know, I had to learn on my own. I put everything I had into teaching myself magic, and I'm still learning. That's why I'm still alive." He looked to Moody, and then to Snape. "The kind of things I've seen, the kind of enemies I've fought and faced down- I really don't think there's anything in this world of yours that can compare. If there is, I hope like hell that you never have to deal with it, because I only made it through by the skin of my teeth more times than I can count. But I made it through, and I don't want to see anyone else _fail _to make it through. I've survived this far. I'll see to it that the kids do, too."

"And if you don't?" asked Snape, one eyebrow arching.

"Then I deserve what's coming to me," John answered. "Every last bit of it."

Snape fell back with a dissatisfied look, but Moody nodded. "Thank you," he said, checking over the parchment. "I think that'll do."

"You're sure?" John glanced at Snape.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Moody tapped the writing-desk with his wand, and the quill laid itself down. Blowing briefly on the wet ink to dry it, he started rolling the parchment up. "Besides, if we have any more questions, both of us know where to find you."

John started to stand. "Can I go, then?"

"Might as well. Don't try leaving the area any time soon, though."

"Thank you." A thought occurred to him. "When does this Veritaserum stuff wear off?"

Moody looked to Snape, who murmured, "If you gave him the entire dropper's worth, in two hours."

"I'll have to avoid people for a while, then."

"Why's that?" asked Moody.

"I just witnessed a terrorist attack on a public place that nearly killed someone I knew," John said wearily. "I've been interrogated by an absolute stranger and by a man who despises me for the better part of an hour. I've been dosed with truth serum, _and _I'm out of decent smokes. I'm in no fit mood to speak with man nor beast. In fact, I think I'll go and-" He stopped. "No, I won't go and get drunk after all, because it was the bloody _pub _that blew up. Lovely. Fucking lovely."

"Veritaserum and alcohol don't mix well," Moody said. With a wave of his wand, the writing-desk vanished.

"Whatever. I'm leaving, regardless." He knew Snape was watching him; he didn't care. He didn't have much left in the way of sustaining anger now that the questions were over, and he wanted to get away before the events of the morning came crashing down on him again. Which reminded him. . . "Oi, Moody? Can I ask you a favour?"

Moody squinted at him suspiciously.

John dug into his robe's inner pocket and tossed a small bag to Moody, who caught it in mid-air. "That's for Maggie Mumby," he said. "I still owe her for these. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't be there myself. I'm not facing anyone else today if I can help it."

Moody started to say something, but John had already closed the door behind him.


	9. Lay My Head On The Surgeon's Table

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line.

* * *

**Notes From The Field**

Conjured alcohol is a fucking CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. Stuff's pretty bad going down- whisky's a bit off, beer tastes outright American- but I've had worse. It's _AFTER _that's the problem. 2-3 hours in, BANG- anything left in the system vanishes, just like that. Problem is, the brain's still running on drunk. All that's left when it goes is the sodding hangover.

Wouldn't bother even trying, only Madam Rosmerta's locked me out of the Three Broomsticks, on account of people getting up and leaving when they see me coming. I ever find out who blew up my goddamn pub, he'd fucking well better hope the Aurors get to him first.

Yes, this is bloody relevant. There's been another bomb sent. Turned up at Ginger's house while he was still in hospital. Goddamn thing was addressed to his wife. Thought it was a prank packet, so she zapped it away before it could do any harm. Knocked the delivery owl out of the air in the process, too, they're trying to trace the thing now...

And how do I know this, you might ask? That git Moody came 'round to tell me I'm still Number One Suspect, that's how. _After _counting over birds in the Owlery and interrogating half the staff, most of the portraits, and two or three dozen house-elves. He can't find anyone to say I've been out of the school to send that owl, because _I haven't bloody BEEN out of the school. _Fuck, I've hardly been out of my rooms! I'd say 'sod this' and throw the contract back in Dumbledore's face, only I haven't anywhere else to go. Don't much fancy my chances of finding my way home on my own, either. That, and the kids arrive tomorrow. If I've got to put up with this kind of shit I might as well give 'em their money's worth, eh?

* * *

Sophronia Toops smoothed down the front of her robes with both hands, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Oh, sure, she would be spending most of the Feast at the head table, where no one could see but the two teachers on either side of her, but- well, these new robes _wrinkled _so, and she couldn't be stopping for a Pressing Charm every few minutes. Why had she ever let Madame Malkin talk her into linen?

"Oh, Sophie, _do _stop fretting," said the amused, grey-haired witch beside her. "You do this every year, and it never helps."

"Well, I'm _sorry, _Rolanda, but I've got an _image _to maintain," Sophronia snapped back. It came out a little harsher than she intended; she bit her lip. "Er. I didn't mean it that way."

"It's all right." Hooch laughed, clapping her on the shoulder. "Honestly, though, it's just the start-of-term feast. The way _you _carry on, you'd think it was an inspection from the Ministry. I doubt if anyone's even looking at you, other than the first years."

"Yes- well-" A familiar odour of smoke stung at her nostrils, distracting her from what she was about to say. Hooch, noticing the silence, turned to see what was so interesting.

"Oh," she said. "Well, _that _explains a few things. Can't say I blame you."

Sophronia's cheeks went red. "It's not-"

Hooch grinned. "Of _course _it's not," she said soothingly. "I understand. Don't worry, I shan't say a word."

"I'm serious, Rolanda! This has nothing to do with the new fellow!"

"Really? May I have him, then?"

_"Rolanda!"_

"I mean, _look _at that arse of his-"

Sophronia would've liked to sink through the floor. All she could manage was an indignant squeaking noise. "It isn't anything like that!" she finally protested, weakly.

The speculative look on Hooch's face as she considered the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor would've done a horse trader proud. Mercifully, he wasn't looking their way, but appeared to be caught up in a conversation with Professor Flitwick. "Ah? Pity."

Struggling for a moment of control, Sophronia took a deep breath. "Rolanda? Can we talk about something else, please? I've got to sit next to the man." _And if I have to keep looking at him now I'm not going to be able to concentrate during the Feast, _she mentally added.

Hooch shrugged, turning away. "As you like," she said indifferently. "I can talk to him later, I suppose. Know him, do you, or have you been worshipping from afar?"

"His name's John Constantine," she said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Lives here at the castle."

"Hm. Bit of luck for you, that."

"Shut up, Rolanda... actually, no, it _is _luck. But not like that!" she protested hastily at the sight of the other witch's grin. "The man's lived his _entire life_ among Muggles. He could have my job three times over if he wanted to. I don't think there's _anything _about them he doesn't know."

"Ah, so that's a purely academic blush on your part, then?"

"Rolanda, if you don't-"

"Something wrong, ladies?"

Sophronia wanted to die.

He was grinning at them, that big, awful knowing grin of his implying that he'd heard every word. There could be no protestations of innocence in the face of Constantine's grin. All she could do was duck her head, cheeks flaming, and mumble.

"Sorry," he said (_that man's a Scouser if ever I've heard one, _the last functioning bit of her brain noted). "Didn't quite catch that?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," snapped Hooch. "_Do _stop being such a silly goose and introduce us, won't you, Sophronia?"

There was no hope for it; she had to look up at the man. Striving desperately to avoid eye contact, she locked her gaze onto the slightly-askew line of his robe's collar. "All- all right," she said resolutely. "Rolanda, this is John Constantine, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor; Professor Constantine, this is Rolanda Xiomara Hooch-"

"Flying teacher," Hooch said briskly, leaning past her reluctant companion to shake Constantine's hand. "And may I say, Professor-"

"John, if y'don't mind-"

"Right, then. John, you look like a man who really knows his way around a broomstick."

He laughed, a low rolling chuckle with even more implication to it than his smile. Sophronia was too relieved that the conversation was turning away from her to notice what happened after that. She fidgeted for a moment with her robes, trying unsuccessfully- again- to persuade her robes to lie smooth. The Hall would be ready soon, and she had to look properly presentable.

Without meaning to, she caught herself glancing up at Constantine. His robes were behaving themselves, a thing she felt grossly unfair. Yes, they hung in a way that suggested he'd thrown them on at the end of the corridor, but on him it looked good. Carelessly arranged, yes, but not outright wrinkled. She suspected the air of rumpledness about him would have been there no matter what he wore; it was as much a part of him as the odour of smoke that clung to him despite the total absence of a pipe. Even the fact that he hadn't bothered to shave... He should have given a stronger impression of slovenliness, but somehow it all seemed to _work_. Even Sophronia's precise, neat sense of aesthetics couldn't find real fault with the man's appearance.

Except for one thing: his hair.

It was... rumpled. It was tousled. It stood away from his head at all the wrong angles. It wasn't the tamped-down hair of someone who'd worn his hat too close, nor even the carelessly askew hair of someone only just recently woken. This was willfully rebellious, outright _poky _hair. Very, very much so. He didn't seem to care about it- or perhaps he simply didn't realise...

Casually, carefully, Sophronia shifted a little to one side. He seemed captivated by Hooch's end of the conversation, which involved an awful lot of elbow gestures. Well- maybe the other witch was just describing the last Quidditch match she'd seen? Not that it mattered. It was distracting, which was what mattered. Quietly, she reached up to flatten a particularly aggravating bit of Constantine's hair.

She never saw it coming. She would have sworn there was no warning at all. All she knew for certain was that one instant, he was thoroughly engrossed in his conversation- and the next, his hand was clamped around Sophronia's wrist.

"Don't," said Constantine, turning to face her.

Sophronia felt the blood fleeing her cheeks at the sight of the look on his face. She swallowed. "I only-"

"_Don't,"_ he repeated, blue eyes narrowing. "Keep your hands to yourself and I'll return the favour, all right?"

_But you're such a _mess! _I was only trying to help... The_ words died in her throat. A chill crawled over her as she remembered- he was an Occlumens, wasn't he? A powerful one? He'd held off Dumbledore, anyway, and that took some doing. Every Occlumens she'd ever heard of had been an even more skilled Legilimens. Which meant-

She dropped her hand, or at least tried to. He still had hold of her wrist. One blond eyebrow went up; he was still _looking _at her.

"I- I'm sorry," Sophronia stammered. He nodded, releasing his grip.

"Good," he said. Nodding once to Hooch, he turned in a swirl of tan robes and stalked into the Great Hall.

Sophronia's wrist was fairly throbbing where he'd grabbed it. Shivering a little, she rubbed at the spot.

"Oo," said Hooch. Her tone was sympathetic, but her eyes were on the entrance to the Hall. The doors hadn't closed properly. "_That _could've gone better."

"Do shut up, Rolanda," said Sophronia absently. Merlin! That'd be bruising soon, she was sure.

"No, really, it could've," said Hooch. "Don't you usually sit three places to Dumbledore's right?"

Sophronia froze. "Oh, _no," _she breathed.

"Oh, yes," said Hooch. She clapped the stunned witch on the shoulder. "This _is _going to be an interesting Feast. Come on, it's only a few hours next to the man."

Inwardly she moaned, but she knew there was no help for it. She'd just have to put on her best face, march in there, and sit down next to Constantine quite as though nothing had happened. Just her luck. "Well, now!" she said brightly, smiling at John as she took her seat. "_This_ is a surprise, isn't it?"

He looked at her suspiciously, brow wrinkling. Then he laughed. "Suppose it is, at that. I takin' up someone else's place?"

"No, no," Sophronia reassured him. "We don't assign seating here. Not even to the students, really. Beyond the House tables, I mean."

Constantine nodded. "Good, 'cos I wasn't planning on getting up."

_Blast, _thought Sophronia. She fidgeted in her seat. "I'm... sorry about that bit in the- ow!" She glared at Hooch, whose innocent look was singularly unconvincing given the twingeing in Sophronia's right foot. "Excuse me, Professor, did you just say something?"

"Yeah, but I don't suppose it much matters. Hallo, Dumbledore."

"Hello yourself," said the Headmaster pleasantly. Sophronia twisted in her seat to greet him. "I see you've met the remainder of our staff, eh, John?"

"Looks like," Constantine agreed. Mercifully, he didn't look Sophronia's way.

"Ah, good." Dumbledore smiled. "Don't hesitate to ask either of your neighbours if there's any difficulty tonight, hmm?" He patted the blond man's shoulder and made for his seat before Constantine could respond.

Which, quite naturally, meant that the man turned to Sophronia instead. "Questions? What's he mean, questions? It's a dinner, innit?"

"Er-" She fumbled. "Well- yes, but- oh, look, you _have _been to school, haven't you? Only Filius said you were self-taught-"

"Taught myself _magic, _yeah. I've _been _to school, though."

"Right. Well, didn't your school have any... you know... ceremonies? Traditions, let's say?"

He frowned. It seemed a natural expression for him. "Not the sort you'd recognise, I don't think," he said. "More on the order of 'corner the new kid in the loo and grab him by the-'"

"Students," said Hooch sharply, from Sophronia's right.

_Merlin be praised, _thought Sophronia as the crowd of students started to trickle in. _A distraction._

And a fine, lovely one it was, too. The children were arriving in droves, all decked out in their back-to-school finest. Herbology would be leaving those robes spotted and dirty soon enough, and there'd likely be enough mishaps in Magical Creatures to leave burns, rips, and marks galore, but there was always something special about the first sight of the students at the Welcoming Feast. Sophronia couldn't help but smile, watching them. As they began seating themselves in clumps of two and three, a nearer motion caught her eye- Constantine, leaning forward.

She turned a little. His eyes were narrowed; his expression, speculative. It reminded her of an expression of her father's. He looked just like that when he was sizing up a prospective purchase at the annual Aethonan horse sale in Exmoor Forest. "Small classes lately," he said, not taking his eyes from the rapidly-filling Slytherin table.

"What?"

Constantine nodded out at the rest of the Great Hall. "You've been having smaller classes than usual lately, haven't you? For about the past three, maybe four, years?"

A horse-trader's look to be sure, Sophronia decided. "Well, yes. Unfortunately."

"Ah. The war?"

"Yes and no. There's been trouble with people not wanting to believe the Headmaster about-" She stopped. "Wait. How did you figure it?"

For answer, he pointed towards the nearest table, which was about two-thirds surrounded by Gryffindors. "Look at 'em. They're all like that. You've got enough room here for a good thousand kids, but I reckon you're lucky if there's even _close _to half that here now. Likely less, under the circumstances. Unless you've got an entire trainload of brats waiting on the other side of those doors, then you're short by a good deal."

"Ah," said Sophronia delicately, choosing to ignore the 'brats' part. "Well, we _do _still have the first years yet to come in." As she looked over the tables of Hufflepuff and her own dear Ravenclaw, she was forced to add, "Not... not _that _many, though."

He made a noncommittal noise and leaned back in his seat.

Feeling an ill-defined need to defend the school's honour, Sophronia noted, "It really does fluctuate, you know. Even in good... times..."

She trailed off; the look he was giving her was one of skepticism mingled with something that might've been either pity or contempt. If only Hooch would interrupt- but no, she didn't, so Sophronia was left to face that gaze with the closest she could manage to a steady look of her own.

She was just beginning to feel the sweat against the back of her robes when he shook his head. "Fine," he said. "Not like it's my lookout anyway."

"Why on earth not?"

He started to dig into his rumpled robes as if searching the pockets, but stopped. With a look of something unpleasant Sophronia couldn't identify, he muttered, "Only goin' to be here a year."

Another question was in order, she felt quite sure of that, but before she could say anything she caught sight of Hagrid's massive form. "Never mind," she told Constantine instead. "They're here."

"Huh?"

The doors to the Hall parted. Sophronia relaxed, feeling a measure of satisfaction as the sight of Minerva McGonagall leading the new group of students (which was, she had to admit, woefully small) left Constantine silent. As the children lined up in front of the staff table, she crossed her fingers; she had a few Galleons wagered with Hooch as to whether this year would yield more Ravenclaws or Gryffindors. Only a handful of the students flinched as the familiar wide rip near the Hat's brim opened and the year's song began.

"_A thousand years ago or more-"_

Beside her, Constantine made an explosive, disbelieving sound. She tried to shut him out as the Hat continued to sing.

It didn't work.

"Does that thing always do that?"

"Yes, it-"

"Quiet," snapped Hooch, whom Sophronia had all but forgotten. She blushed, looking down hastily. The Hat sang on:

"_And so it came to pass that they_

_Each chose their different ways._

_In Ravenclaw, the sharpest minds_

_Would always find a home,_

_Whilst Gryffindor-"_

"How long's it going to go on like this?" interrupted Constantine. At least he had the courtesy to whisper a little more quietly this time.

"Until it finishes," she heard Flitwick answer, from the man's other side. "Could be a while. Now, please, _stay quiet."_

"Fine, fine," Constantine grumbled. "Ask a simple question-"

"Quiet!"

It was all Sophronia could do not to laugh. Constantine scowled, slumping low in his seat like a child robbed of its favourite toy. She turned her attention back to the Hat- well, mostly. A number of the students were whispering amongst themselves and pointing.

Somehow, she didn't think they were commenting on the song.

"_-those days now quite forgotten._

_It's up to us at Hogwarts School_

_To carry out their plan,_

_But in these sad, divided days_

_I wonder if we can-"_

Another warning Song. Sophronia's stomach knotted. Hadn't last year's been enough? At least it didn't seem to provoke another question.

"_It falls to you to overcome-"_

Constantine coughed.

_Please, _she thought, _don't let him-_

"Does it usually take this long?"

At least he had muttered it quietly, and out the side of his mouth... "It's nearly done, I think."

"Sssh!" That was Flitwick.

"_And turn from your dissension._

_But I can only do my part,_

_So you must now do yours-"_

His breath shifted. He was going to ask something else. She knew it.

She readied a foot to mash down on his.

The words never came; Constantine's expression changed to one of surprise, and he looked down. The cause, so far as Sophronia could see, was a scrap of... yes, that was parchment! Flitwick had passed the man a note. As she watched, simultaneously horrified and fascinated, he unfolded it. She'd just caught sight of Dumbledore's spidery handwriting when a burst of applause alerted her to the end of the Hat's song.

"Here," Constantine muttered into her ear as she began to clap, "explain this to me, would you?"

She looked down; he was passing her the note. On one side it read:

_I shall expect you in my office when the meal has ended. **Do **pay attention to this bit:_

Obediently following the colon, she turned it over. On the other side it read only:

**_You're Next._**

**-_D._**

"What's he mean by that?"

"Brooke, Anselm!" McGonagall announced.

Sophronia stared at him.

* * *

"This is _bollocks, _Dumbledore!" Constantine slammed his hands down on the edge of the Headmaster's desk. Right now, he didn't care about the ethics clause, or about the muttered disapproval from the portraits on the walls, either. "I am _not _putting that thing on!"

"No? I assure you, every instructor at this school has worn it at some point in his or her life."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? You've already been inside my head. I don't see why I've got to let something _else _go grubbing around in there."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Hardly that, John. Occlumency and the magic of the Sorting Hat are two entirely different things. I delved your memories, your feelings; the Hat, on the other hand, assesses character. A thing which-"

"If you tell me some shite about it being sorely lacking of late it'll go very hard with you, I'm warning you," Constantine snapped. "One invasion's enough. I'm not doing a second."

"I rather think you are, John."

"Oh? What're you going to do? Levitate it onto my head?"

"If I must, yes." Dumbledore peered over his glasses at the scowling Constantine. "What is the Muggle playwright's line? Meet it is I set it down that one may smile and smile, and be a villain? I saw many memories in your head, John. Many of them were of acts of the blackest sort of villainy."

"But you-"

Dumbledore raised a finger. "Many," he said. "Not all. I _also _saw the memories of a man striving to undo wrongs. It was that which gave me hope enough to hire you, and I will tell you now that whatever the Hat's verdict, I will not take back that decision."

"So why-"

"A man's motives may vary, even for the best of acts. I cannot afford to be generous and trusting any longer, Mr. Constantine. The students entrusted to my care, and the parents of those students, _must _be able to trust your character themselves. Or, barring that, they must at least know exactly what they are dealing with. My judgment has, of late, been questioned more than I would like." He nodded towards the Hat. "This has not."

Constantine eyed the thing with some distaste. Having other beings anywhere near his mind was about as appealing as being asked to use hallucinogens- he'd do it if he had to, but kicking and screaming all the way. "If it's really assessing character it'll likely decapitate me, you realise."

"Then I shall have the house-elves take extra care in cleaning out the carpet," said Dumbledore serenely. "Please, John, just put it on. It won't take long."

He sighed, reached for the ragged grey thing, and pulled it on.

"Aren't you a little _old_ for this?" the Sorting Hat's voice said, speaking directly into John's thoughts. It had a barely repressed distaste to it, like a nun faced with a used condom.

"Dumbledore's idea, Hat. Not mine. Get on with it."

"Very well." And there was silence.

"Well?"

"I'm _thinking_," the Hat snapped. "It's not easy, you know."

"You did all those kids fast enough."

"Children are what I was **made** for. I sort them into Houses that best support their potential. Adults are harder."

John snorted.

"Well, they are. But if you insist..." It sighed. "Clever you may be, but not, I think, the sort to spend his days in study for study's sake. You're after the end result, eh? Not going to put in all that hard work just for the sake of saying you did it? So- not Ravenclaw."

"No arguments here, Hat."

"Good." Another pause. "There was a time when I'd have said Slytherin and not given it a second thought. A past full of fire and ambition, I see, and all that that implies. You would have been a stunning Slytherin once, you know... now? I think not. Experience has tempered that, blunted the desire to outshine the Morning Star. Gryffindor, now-" John didn't snort, though he wanted to. The Hat must've noticed; he heard a dry chuckle. "Oh, yes, Gryffindor. Daring, bravery, nerve... all qualities Godric Gryffindor held in highest esteem, and all qualities _you_ possess in almost suicidal quantities. Although _he_ would _never_ have approved of what you've done with them. I should know."

John rubbed at his nose, wishing the damned thing would get the monologue over with.

"On the other hand, you _do_ know the value of hard work and loyalty. _And_ fairness- no, don't try to deny it. You may not play by the rules, but you know what they _ought_ to be. Gets under your skin, doesn't it? People all puffed up with power and authority they haven't earned? People punished for asking the wrong question, or being in the way when someone else's enemy comes to visit? _That_ burns, I can see it. Oh, my, yes- it even applies to you, I see, you've got things you won't speak of, but-"

"Watch it."

"Ah? Don't like being poked at? Well, I'm not surprised." It chuckled again. "But it's there. Oh, yes, it's there. The rake's got a sense of commitment, I see-"

"Bullshit, Hat. I do as I please."

"And what pleases you is to hold the hounds of Heaven and the wolves of Hell at bay, hmm? To bring the bastards to their knees for what they've done to you and yours? Oh, you've failed time and again and you've danced a merry jig around it, but in the end it's there right enough... 'he pits himself against both Heaven and the Pit because he is John Constantine, and because he is alive'. For so long as they exist, you'll be there to stop them, won't you?"

"Will you get _on_ with it, you bloody sack of stitches?"

"All right, then. I'll make it quick. Not Ravenclaw, not Slytherin- Gryffindor would never forgive me if I put you into his House- but at least you _do_ belong in- _HUFFLEPUFF!"_

The last word alone was spoken aloud. Ignoring the murmur that went up from the office portraits, John pulled the Hat off and tossed it roughly back into its niche. "Great. Sodding _wonderful."_

Dumbledore, damn him, was smiling. "Thank you," he said. "That will do nicely, I think."

"Yeah? Do I get a prize, at least?"

"The fact that I haven't reprimanded you for your language on school property doesn't qualify?"

John's first two fingers were halfway out before he even had time to think. "Hardly a student, are you, now?" he snapped, forcing himself not to finish the gesture.

Dumbledore laughed. "I shall send Winky up with your new tie directly," he said. "Good night, Mr. Constantine. That will be all."


	10. Who'd Watch For Me

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. John Constantine, the Hellblazer name, and all related references are property of DC Comics via their Vertigo line._

* * *

_

_Hellblazer: Hogwarts_  
Chapter 10: Who'd Watch For Me

_Another year_, Harry thought glumly, _another teacher._

He had been quite looking forward to this year's classes ever since receiving the results of his OWLs. True, he'd done abysmally on a few of them, but he'd never expected much of a Divination score to begin with. It had been that "O" in Defense Against the Dark Arts that cheered him most, particularly since the Headmaster had reassured him of the new professor's complete and utter difference from Dolores Umbridge. True, he wouldn't be taking Potions- not with a mere "E", and Snape's standards- but Mr. Weasley had said the Auror Office was revamping its standards now that Amelia Bones was Minister of Magic.

And then.

Then there had been the explosions in Hogsmeade - Mr. Weasley's rush to St. Mungo's - Tonks' near-miss, the mystery package to Mrs. Weasley -

And to top it off, he and Ron had missed the Sorting Feast entirely, and been given detentions from Snape before the term had even begun!

So it was with only half an ear and very little heart that he listened to Hermione and Ron's speculations as they headed for their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. "-saw him after the Feast," Hermione was saying. "I don't think he was very happy to be there- especially not after the Sorting Song was over. He spent the entire Sorting scowling at his food, not speaking to anyone. Which seemed _particularly_ odd, since he'd been whispering to Professor Toops all through the Song-"

"You're joking!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione shook her head. "No, Ron, I'm not- the whole thing. I don't believe he heard more than two words of the Song. Professor Dumbledore had to reprimand him-"

"What, in front of the whole school?" interrupted Harry.

"Well- not exactly," Hermione conceded. "But he _did_ pass him a note of some sort. I couldn't make out what was on it, but Professor Constantine went very quiet after he read it."

Harry nodded. Ron looked highly amused at the prospect of a professor being brought low by such a means. "Anyway," Hermione continued, "he looked thoroughly disreputable to _me-"_

"Well, so did Lupin," Ron pointed out.

"_No,_ Ron," said Hermione patiently. "Not shabby. Disreputable."

"What's the difference, then?"

"Well-" She hesitated. "If Professor Lupin were to get himself a good, new set of robes and a decent haircut, he'd look all right, wouldn't he?"

Harry and Ron nodded.

"But if you were to put a good new set of robes on Mundungus Fletcher-"

Ron shuddered; Harry scowled.

"You understand what I mean, then," Hermione said. "Rather like that. Although..."

"Although what?" Harry prompted.

"Well... there was something about him that made me think... well, that he knows his business rather better than Mundungus does."

"Yeah, 's called the word 'Professor' in front of his name," said Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant."

A chill breeze was the only warning Harry had. He stepped away from the wall of their corridor just in time to avoid the emerging form of the Fat Friar. "Oh, hello!" said the ghost. "Off to class with the new professor, are you?"

Hermione smiled; Harry nodded. "Yes, Friar," said Ron.

The ghost nodded happily. "Splendid, splendid. Capital fellow, really. Do give him my regards," he said, and continued across the corridor and into the opposite wall.

"That's... strange," Hermione said, watching him go. "I don't believe the ghosts normally take much interest in the teachers, do they? Except Binns, I mean."

Ron shrugged, setting off again at a brisk pace. "They've got to have something to talk about," he said. "Anyway, maybe he's been here longer than the last two."

"Possibly, Hermione said, but a doubtful tone remained in her voice. "Harry? Are you all right?"

"Hm?" said Harry. "Sorry, Hermione-"

In fact, his thoughts had been quite elsewhere. He'd caught a snatch of Seamus Finnegan saying something to Dean Thomas about Hogsmeade and the new professor, but hadn't made out more than those few words. Whether the new professor came from the village, or had lodged there, or had something to do with the Hog's Head being rebuilt- he couldn't say...

"I was just thinking," he finished a bit lamely as they reached the classroom door.

"Well, think faster," said Hermione. "That's him coming now."

Harry scrambled for the first available seat and hurriedly pulled out his textbook. The title hadn't struck him as a particularly good sign, but Unpleasant Things It Is Sometimes Good To Know at least had the virtue of being large enough to hide behind. Hermione, he noted, had already annotated her copy extensively. "Here goes nothing," he murmured as Ron took the seat next to him.

The door opened. The room went quiet, all eyes on the new professor as he made his way to the desk and turned to face them.

"Right," said Constantine, scanning the room (Harry huddled a little lower behind a diagram of the optic nerves of the Diricawl). "Let's skip the pleasantries, shall we? Some of you lot took your education into your own hands last year. You won't be repeating that with me-"

"_Some_ of us thought it was a better idea to at least _try_ to learn something worthwhile," Hermione muttered quietly.

Not quietly enough. Constantine had been about to speak again; he broke off what he had been about to say. "Right, who was that?"

"Me, Professor," said Hermione, lifting her chin defiantly. "Hermione Granger."

Harry peeped out from behind his book. Constantine's blue eyes were narrowed, and he had an assessing look as he considered Hermione silently. Eventually he grunted. "Good," he said.

Hermione blinked. "But you-"

"I said it won't be happening," Constantine pointed out. "You're not going to need it. You won't have the time for it either. Let's get one thing straight, all right? I don't give a rat's arse about Ministry agendas or educational decrees, or any of that sort of rubbish. This Umbridge woman had no more place calling herself a teacher than I do calling myself a priest. Dumbledore's hired me to keep you from getting yourselves killed- and that's what I intend to teach you to do. It's not going to be pretty, it's not going to be easy-"

Hermione sat up a little straighter.

"It's not going to be _academic_, either."

She scowled. Harry couldn't quite suppress a snicker. "Oh, _do_ be quiet," she snapped crossly.

A noise came from the front of the classroom- Constantine clearing his throat. "Do you _mind_, Miss Granger?" he said acidly.

"I'm sorry, Profes-"

Constantine shook his head, cutting her off. "As I was saying. This is a class in not having your arses handed to you, whether by this Voldemort bloke or- oh, for _God's_ sake!" he snarled as the murmurs started running around the room. "Cut that out, all of you!"

Harry lowered his book. Constantine had his wand in his hand and looked very much as if he was about ready to cast _Silencio_ on the whole class. Gingerly, Harry cleared his throat. "Er, Professor-"

"Yes?" Constantine snapped, glancing up at Harry.

There was a clatter of wood on stone, as Constantine's wand fell from suddenly nerveless fingers to the floor. The man's face went chalk-white.

Explanation forgotten, Harry froze. _Oh, no, not **another**_-

"_Tim?"_ Constantine blurted.

". . . er, excuse me?" was all Harry could manage.

* * *

John stared at the black-haired, bespectacled boy. _This isn't possible_, his brain insisted. _It can't be him. Tim can't-_ His eyes flicked towards the kid's shoulder, half expecting to find Yo-yo, but there was no owl to be seen. He shook his head and looked back to the boy's face.

No. No, it wasn't Tim. The face wasn't right after all- too wide, too pale. Not to mention the scar on his forehead (_although you know, you've been in this half-arsed world long enough for that to happen_, part of his mind whispered). Still. . .

He bent to pick up his wand. "Your name's not Tim Hunter, then?" he asked warily.

The boy shook his head. "No, sir," he replied. "It's Harry Potter." He said it in a tone of half-dread, as if he expected John to take him to task for it.

John only shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "Thought you were someone I knew."

"That's . . . that's all, sir?"

"Professor," John corrected with a scowl. "Not sir. Anyone in this class calls me sir and they'll bloody well live to wish they hadn't, all right?" He surveyed the class before looking back to Harry. "And yeah. That's all. There summat else I should know?"

The look the boy gave him suggested strongly that John had somehow grown a second head. "You mean you don't. . ." Harry trailed off, uncertainly.

John shrugged again. "Should I?"

"Well-" Harry squirmed. "I-"

"Harry's the one who did all that extra teaching last year," a red-headed boy with a face full of freckles suddenly exclaimed. "You didn't _know?_"

"Haven't had time to look over all me notes," John returned. "Here, who're you?"

"Ron Weasley."

He might as well have cracked a whip across John's face; reflexively, John flinched. _Ginger's kid_, he thought. _The girl wasn't bad enough?_ "Right," he said aloud. "Got it. No, as a matter of fact, I don't know. I'm not from around here, take that as you like it. I don't know your names. I don't know your politics. I don't know a bloody thing about this bloke who calls himself Lord Voldemort, except that he's got every last one of you scared down to the bones. I know you're up to your necks in people who want to see you and your parents running like rats. I can't change that. But I _can_ tell you this. . ."

He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk.

"There are worse things in this world than Voldemort. Worse by far. I've seen them. I've dealt with them. And I'm still here."

The air in the classroom was absolutely still.

"I'm not going to guarantee that what I'm teaching you is going to keep you alive. . . but it's worked for me all these years. And it's the best damned chance you're going to get."

_And may God help you all if I'm right, you miserable little shits_.

* * *

Done. Fucking hell, he was done. There was one more class left today, yeah, but he'd made it through the last damn Gryffindor class and he hadn't bitten _anyone. _Between the Weasley kid (who hadn't recognized him so far as he could tell) and that blasted Granger, he was about ready to pop the kneecaps off the next brat he saw. If she'd asked one more sodding question. . .

Never mind. No time for that. He'd deal with that later. Right now he had a schedule to stick to. If he took the long corridor _right now _and avoided any of the ghosts who wanted to make conversation, he could make it to his rooms, get in a decent smoke, and be back before the sixth-year Slytherins set foot in the classroom.

The mere prospect of tobacco was immensely cheering. He allowed himself a moment to straighten his robes-

"Ah, John! There you are," exclaimed an all-too-familiar voice. Constantine's shoulders sagged.

"Hallo, Dumbledore." _Bugger off. Sod the buggering hell off-_

The Headmaster smiled, a grossly beatific expression. John wanted nothing more than to scrub that sunny look from the man's face with a fistful of steel wool. "I do hope your first day as an official teacher hasn't treated you too poorly?"

"I've had better days."

Dumbledore's mouth twitched. John knew there was a laugh behind that look. "Ah, well. I suppose the experience takes something out of a man at first-"

_You're standing between me and my fags, Dumbledore. Give me one good reason not to set you on fucking _fire.

Dumbledore must've caught some of that in his face, surely. John was making no effort to hide it. Nevertheless, the man continued. "The talk is already out amongst the students, it so happens. Apparently, you were released from Azkaban Prison for the span of a year solely for the purpose of assuming your current position. Fascinating, isn't it? And quite at odds with the contention among several of the other students, namely, that you are in fact the long-lost cousin of one of the current instructors, hired almost entirely on his or her recommendation solely for the purpose of-"

Fire was entirely too good for him. Possibly something involving honey and ants. _Possessed_ ants.

"None of which, of course, is particularly relevant- but it did seem the sort of thing that might interest you to know," Dumbledore finished.

And that seemed to be that. Nevertheless, John forced himself to assume some measure of civility. There was, after all, half a smoke waiting on the other side of it if he managed not to feed the man his own beard. "That so?" he inquired, fingers curling and uncurling behind his back. "You'd think the kids these days'd have better imaginations than that."

"One does find the current generation a bit lacking in some areas," Dumbledore agreed gravely. "I trust you'll find some way to make up for that lack."

"Oh, believe me," said Constantine, "I've got _plenty _of possibilities in mind for them."

"Splendid." Dumbledore beamed again, his palms coming together in front of him as his fingers interlaced. "Even more so, given that it's reminded me of my original purpose in coming here."

Oh, _hell, _there was _more?_ John's fingers closed, tightened. "Izzat so?"

"It is indeed." With a flourish, Dumbledore produced a roll of parchment from some pocket or other of his robes. This he presented to Constantine, who unrolled it- and stared.

"What the _fu-"_

"Students, Mr. Constantine," said Dumbledore pleasantly, his voice raised just a fraction. "I suggest you avoid that incipient consonant."

_Fuck _the ants. Broken glass, a toilet plunger, and Josh Wright after that last hour with Isabel.

"Dumbledore," John said when he could manage coherence, "would you mind explaining this?"

"I should think it would be self-explanatory, John. It occurred to me that there might be some difference in standards between the schools of your world and this one, so I have taken it upon myself to avoid any unpleasantness that may arise as a result of those differences."

"By compiling a list of _words I'm not allowed to say! _What the f- what the _hell _d'you-"

"You'll find, I think, that most of the items there are entirely self-explanatory-"

"'Bugger'? You've _got _to be joking! The _kids _say that in front of _me!"_

"This, alas, is so- but you _do _have an example to set in your position. Therefore, I fear you must be held to a higher standard."

"Is this something you do to everyone who works here, or am I just _special _somehow?" John snapped.

"Oh, it's just you," Dumbledore said with entirely too much good cheer to be natural. "The others scarcely require such guidance, having long ago internalized the difference between acceptable and unacceptable. I suppose I ought to have brought this to you earlier, but you seemed to be rather wrapped up in your work-"

John ran his finger down the list, ignoring the rest of what Dumbledore said. "Do I at least get 'arse'?" he muttered.

"I would prefer that you did not, but given the nature of political discussion amongst the professors I fear it can scarcely be avoided. 'Arse' it is, as well as 'sod', although that's to be kept to sixth years or older. And be assured that we _do _have ways of enforcing this clause other than the termination of your contract."

_Fucking hell, _thought John. "Arse," he said instead.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I do believe you're getting the hang of it. Well done, John, well done. I shan't keep you from your work any further, then; best of luck with your last class of the day, hmm?"

With that, he swept off. Constantine crumpled the list in one white-knuckled fist, turning towards the corridor back to his quarters... and his shoulders sagged in defeat.

The_ students _were already here.

_Broken glass, Josh Wright, **and **possessed fire ants. And throw Maggie Thatcher into the deal.

* * *

_

John slammed the door behind him, stalked to his desk, and dropped ungracefully into his chair. A few moments later the door opened and the sixth-year Slytherins started to file in. He cast a somewhat more jaundiced eye than usual over them. They seemed about up there with the rest of the sixth years- better robes, maybe, or newer books- but really, if they hadn't been dispatched to his classroom during the Slytherin class period he'd never have been able to pick them out from the rest of the kids.

Frankly, he hoped he was wrong. This bunch was supposed to be ambitious as all fuck, and _generally_ that at least meant interesting sidetracks, if nothing else.

As the last two sat down, he pulled himself to his feet and cleared his throat. "Right," he said. "Welcome to the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, m'name's Constantine, you lot've probably already heard of me if you've any ears at all around this place, I don't know what you've heard but half of it's b-"

The list Dumbledore had given him rustled warningly of its own volition. He made a mental note to pin the thing to the wall with the first silver implement he could find, and went on.

"-well, half of it's nothing but lies, and I wouldn't trust the rest of it either if I were you. I don't know who you are or what you've done in years one through five, only that you've passed your OWL exam to get into this class, whoever you lot are. Which means, I figure, that you _want_ to be here for whatever reason. Am I right?"

The students, as one, looked back at him with the same expression: _is he **quite** serious?_

"Suppose that's a yes, then," Constantine muttered. "Right. Now, I was- yes, who're you?"

The skinny, dark-haired lad who'd entered second to last dropped his hand. "Theodore Nott, Professor," he said. "Er. . . do you _really_ not know _anything_ about what's gone on here lately?"

"Well, I've been living in the castle since end of last term and the ghosts won't bloody leave me alone. Not to mention that I've had about five other Defense classes before this and your fellow students _will_ talk, but frankly? I don't bloody care."

"I'd think the Gryffindors would've said something to catch your interest, at least," said another boy, a pale-haired sort with the face of a weasel. "That lot doesn't know when to shut up-"

"Here, who're you?"

"Malfoy, Professor. Draco Malfoy."

Constantine frowned, riffling through his recollections of the prior classes for the name. "Mmm… not especially, no," he said. The boy looked disappointed. "They were too busy working to talk much. And that's what you're going to be, all right? This isn't a cruise through History of Magic, believe me." _Which is good, 'cos if it were, I'd be buggered._ "You've got one more exam to sit in two years' time. There'll be enough academics between now and then for you to pass whatever written stuff they put in front of you. _I'll_ be handling the practical side- however that might shape up."

A murmur went up among the students; John let it run around the room for a bit, then coughed again. "Questions?"

A hard-faced girl just behind Malfoy put up a hand.

"Right, and you are. . .?"

"Pansy Parkinson," she said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is it true that you dueled Professor Snape for this position, sir?"

Constantine considered her for a moment, then nodded. "Dumbledore's orders," he said.

Her expression brightened as she leaned forward. "In our second year," she said, "Professor Lockhart started a dueling club, but we haven't had one since-"

"Looking forward to a bit of school-sanctioned spell-slinging, eh?"

Malfoy leaned over to mutter something to the hulking young man next to him.

John let it pass. Parkinson nodded. "We didn't get nearly the sort of practice we should've, Professor."

Nott rolled his eyes; a square-jawed, black-haired girl in the next seat let out a snort. Parkinson whipped around to glare in her direction before turning back to the front. "Well- not as _much_ as I would have liked, anyway."

"You'll get your chance," John said. "Right here. But it _won't_ be dueling."

All of them straightened up at that. "Professor!" Malfoy exclaimed, a disappointed sound.

"It won't be dueling because I've _seen_ what you lot call dueling, and frankly, it's a lot of-" The paper rustled again. "-tosh. Think the enemy's going to hold still at his end of the field? Think you're always going to be faster on the draw? Not bloody likely." He surveyed the room. "Out of all you bunch sitting here right now, I reckon maybe _two_ of you could really hold your own in a proper battle- if that. And that's what we're talking about here. Defense Against The Dark Arts isn't _about_ rules- tell me, Parkinson, you heard about the duel, did you? Did you hear how I ended it?"

She shook her head mutely.

"Right. Let's just say it _wasn't_ with a spell."

"But-" she protested. He cut her off with a wave of one hand.

"You'll find out soon enough, I reckon. No, see, when I went into that duel I knew Snape wanted my-" Another rustle went up from the parchment. John glared at it fiercely; it subsided. "-_hide_ for his office wall. If you're _lucky,_ that's all the enemy's going to be after once you're out of here. You of all people ought to understand the difference between a duel and a bloody _battle_, all right?"

The huge boy next to Malfoy frowned, his expression pensive and perhaps a touch confused. Towards the back a slim young black man steepled his fingers on the desk, looking thoughtful. "So," Parkinson said, "that means-"

"Means that once we get done with the day's reading and homework, you lot are going to have a _serious_ go at takin' each other apart."


End file.
